


Renewal

by Ilya_Boltagon, TheLightdancer



Series: Dagor Dagorath [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arwen is a warrior, Attempted Sexual Assault, Balrogs, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Families of Choice, Family Drama, Gen, Hope, Non-Graphic Violence, Orcs, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Self-Harm, Shapeshifting, dragon - Freeform, mention of miscarriage, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 42,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilya_Boltagon/pseuds/Ilya_Boltagon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightdancer/pseuds/TheLightdancer
Summary: A year after the events of Restoration, Arwen, Turin, and Nienor have found places in the new and darker world since the return of Morgoth. Yet happiness, new and fragile, faces new challenges as old enemies return and the shadow of the end of all things looms.
Relationships: Arwen Undómiel & Elladan & Elrohir, Arwen Undómiel & Lúthien Tinúviel, Arwen Undómiel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Arwen Undómiel & Niënor Níniel, Arwen Undómiel & Thranduil, Arwen Undómiel & Túrin Turambar, Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Elladan/Niënor Níniel, Niënor Níniel & Túrin Turambar
Series: Dagor Dagorath [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979809
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

Thranduil found himself doing something he had never imagined himself doing in the old days, when he was king of a great realm in the Greenwood. Then he had been too busy ruling a realm and fighting wars against the drakes of the Withered Heath for such a thing. Now... now he was brooding. He had much to brood on, he was son of one of the heroes of the wars of the First Age, Oropher of Doriath. He had seen those wars, and he had fought in them. Everything in him as a Quendi, as a king, and as a warrior said that wars were not won skulking in the woods and waiting for monsters to come forth and to attack. And yet......he remembered what had happened when those five figures known as Istari had first arrived.

One of them, Mithrandir, remained with them and he was grateful for the counsel of Olorin more than most. A disciple and servant of the Weeper, he knew more than most of the deep sorrows and how to give counsel that was a thing of wisdom and indeed of strategy. Allatar and Pallando, the Blue Wizards, had gone to the east and waged secret wars. They lived, he hoped, though they may well have died or been slain by now. Not that he was ever likely to know before Arda was remade and Unmarred. The Brown served with the beasts of the Kementari.... and the White, laughably misnamed the voice of wisdom, had chosen to gather great armies and go straight for Morgoth, exactly as he'd overheard another, more warlike Quendi of the former Lothlorien calling for.

It had been a glorious thing to see those armies raised, in those days. Before it was clear precisely who and what the new Enemy really was. Old and terrible legends had returned to scour Rivendell in the opening strike that underscored just how terrible things were to become, yet enough endured of Arnor and of Elven strength that armies could be raised, and so they were. The charisma of Curunir, called by the Men Saruman, had been a thing to behold. Wise words, spoken with a voice of such majesty that even Thranduil himself had been drawn in to listen to them. It was, at this point, that he realized with a wince that he'd acted just like Saruman the moment that Turin had returned.

The memory, when called up, could not fall so readily. The great armies swarmed out and then among all the things that could have arisen as a ghost of the old ages, a Balrog. It had hewn its way, messily, out of Moria, and it, not the vampire Thuringwethil, had led the great armies in that clash on behalf of the new Dark Lord, and it had spoken terrible words, promising that its returned master would lead the forces of Ruin to glory once more. Saruman had gone to confront it and he had won, if so it could be called....and then the Balrog had impaled him through the heart before his death, smiling with its last, and upon his death a pall of horror struck the armies and the wavering of Morgoth's armies had shifted, as they chanted the true-name of their dread lord. "Melkor!"

He shuddered, and then closed his eyes. He would need to give counsel of wisdom and.....it occurred to him. Perhaps he'd need to talk to Túrin and Nienor. To.....to admit error. When the Mortals had arrived in this camp, nigh on a year ago, he had expected Túrin to be as he once was: a warrior who thought of little more than glory in battle. However, seeing the Man's new gentleness towards his own sister Nienor, and to young Arwen Elrondiel, who had been damaged in unthinkable ways by years in captivity... Just thinking of what he had heard Túrin and Maglor discussing, months ago, still had the power to make him wish to be violently ill. He had kept her suffering to himself, of course: such torment should not become idle gossip. But surely there was more he could do to aid them?

Striding purposefully, although he had no true destination in mind, and still haunted by old memories, the clash of steel on steel had him reaching for his own blade and racing towards the sound, although no hue or cry had been raised to signal an attack. Reaching the source of the sound, Thranduil exhaled in relief, sheathing his sword. Elladan and Elrohir, Arwen's brothers, appeared to be demonstrating basic dagger maneuvers to Arwen and Nienor, who stood nearby.

He paused for a moment, gauging their techniques. He'd fought on the bloody fields of the Dawn-time, against the armies of Morgoth in his glory days. He knew his way around a blade and had seen his skill tested against stern things, and for all that he saw nothing to fault with their techniques. Elrond may have been more the intellectual than the warlord but he had not skimped on teaching his sons techniques.

He made no sudden movements, knowing that Arwen would not take long to see him, and wanting to respect her fear of the same. She looked over and her eyes turned to him, and he remained still, breathing calmly. It had taken him time to be accepted around her, and it was a fragile thing that he, and his son, were virtually unique in, and that in spite of the somewhat....unpleasant beginning they had had.

After she looked at him closely, her eyes narrowing for a moment, he gave a single nod and she relaxed, if moving somewhat closer to Nienor. He cocked his head slightly, studying her body-language. It was amazing what a year's time among family, blood and... chosen, though it felt odd to think of mortals, even ones raised by Elves like Túrin, as kin to Quendi, could do to restore strength. It gave him more confidence that what he would want to discuss with them might actually work, as Arwen's gaze returned to the maneuvers, and her hands moved with an instinctual muscle memory, the kind of thing that fit what he knew of the ways Elrond and his sons had learned and what she had learned from them.

Elrohir was the next to notice him, and deftly disarmed his twin before stepping towards the Sinda, inclining his head in greeting. "Thranduil. Did you need something?"

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, well aware that the wrong turn of phrase could still frighten Arwen into withdrawing. "If you are instructing Arwen and Nienor in weapon-craft, I thought to offer my help. After all, you both often leave the camp on patrols. I am here as and when lessons may be required."

"That would be a great help," Elladan said slowly. "But you'll forgive us if we inquire why you would spend your time on such things?"

Thranduil shrugged casually. "We live in dark times. It seems fitting that everyone should be able to defend themselves as best they can." He purposefully did not look at Arwen now. When she'd been a child, she had discerned the thoughts of others with ease, usually with mischief in mind. She had changed greatly, of course, but he had no way to know whether or not she still read thoughts with ease, and he certainly did not wish her to find out that he knew what the Enemy had forced her to endure. "If this suits you all, of course. I would not intrude where I am not welcome." Elladan and Elrohir looked to each other, and then to Nienor, and then to Arwen, who put her finger to her chin for a moment. It was the finger of her scarred hand, still thicker than the other, though she was less thin than she had been. That change was another that impressed Thranduil. This Elleth had a will to live, and the ways her hands moved showed the skills were there, it would just take the right context to awaken them. Arwen remained silent for a bit, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, twitching slightly. Her chosen and blood siblings could move around her when she was like this, but he knew if he yielded to what he wished to do she'd flee and this would go as poorly as it had when she'd first arrived.

Whatever shadows of her past darkened around her passed, as she opened her eyes and looked to him to nod silently, not trusting herself to say anything. He carefully kept his face still, not certain how much she would potentially misinterpret joy around a sword near her presence, and then relaxed. Niënor's eyes went to him carefully and he turned to her, choosing his words equally carefully. "In that case, I look forward to it. You can both meet me here, near-" and he pointed to the tent that Arwen shared, now, with Túrin and Nienor, though Elladan and Elrohir spent the most time of anyone going to it, "in the morning, after the first meal of the day."

Now he did permit himself a small smile and Arwen just as cautiously returned it and even nodded of her own will. A small part of him felt some warmth and relief. The memories of the fallen armies still haunted his dreams, as did the point when it had become horrifyingly clear just which evil had arisen after the fall of Gorthaur at the gates of his fortress. He could not save or undo the past....but here, at least, he could help pave the way to something better.


	2. Chapter 2

Túrin moved as silently as he could through the sun-dappled woods that marked the border of the camp, the idyllic scenery giving off a false air of hope and joy. He knew better than to let his guard down while on patrol, however. Just because things seemed peaceful, did not mean an attack could not occur at any time. To his right, he knew that Maglor patrolled the camp border, further East, while his own kinsman Beren guarded the west, along with Huan. Stationed in the treetops above was Legolas Thranduilion, though Túrin could not determine exactly where he was: he was almost as skilled in woodcraft as Beleg had been, long ago...

Other Elves who Túrin knew less well patrolled the remainder of the border, leaving none of it unguarded, although Orcs rarely ventured this close. For himself, he knew from the reports of the scouts that a winged creature could be seen spying on the camp on clear nights, though it never came within arrow-range. Túrin was privately certain that the creature was Thuringwethil, and a vicious part of him wished the vampire would dare an approach: he had a score to settle with the demon, for the sake of his chosen-sister Arwen.

An odor began to intrude upon the air, at first barely present. He didn't notice it, not at first.

The Elves did, they stiffened, Legolas Thranduilion in particular.

In retrospect, he supposed, the son of the dragon-slayer freezing like that was the point where everyone should have noticed but they couldn't quite see him and those Elves with less familiarity with the scent had merely halted in place, sniffing the air.

It intensified along with the sounds of beating wings and then Túrin did smell it and he recognized it for what it was, immediately. His hand slipped to his sword as the sound intensified and then at last, even those who had never encountered such things knew it for what it was and what it had to be. It was his first time hearing Elves collectively swearing, especially in that tone, since his unlamented... foe... of times past had been there.

A great shadow cast over the forest as Legolas leapt downward, face pale. "Dragon," he spoke, in an artificially calm voice. "There is....a dragon. Right on top of us."

To his own shame, for an instant, overcome with grim memories of Glaurung and its fell voice, Túrin stood frozen. The increasing thunder-like sound of huge wings jarred him back to his senses, and he realized that many of the gathering Elves were looking to him for guidance. Well, he was known to have slain a Dragon single-handedly before... And then the circumstances of fate shifted with an abrupt and dawning familiarity as the thing that hovered over the woods landed right in front of them... in between them and their camp.

It was massive, bigger than Glaurung had been and the wyrm-reek was something that left him barely able to breathe, such was the potency of the force of nature that had made that impact, the ground cracking where its claws hit the Earth.

Its wings folded against its back, the creature looked down and then grinned, a reptilian and rather monstrous smirk that left the Elves and Túrin puzzled that it hadn't simply tried to kill them all. "Well well," it spoke. "What have we here? Vagabonds skulking in the woods, hiding from the master of the world?"

Túrin stood up, proudly, something that burned in him from how he'd failed against Glaurung. "There is only one master of the world, and you are not him."

The Dragon's eyes turned to him, and Túrin suddenly regretted that once again his mouth had outrun his brain about as fast as Nessa the swift could move. Nonetheless, he drew his blade and stood tall, facing down the creature. The Elves, along with Beren and Huan, formed ranks beside him, aiming their own weapons.

The Dragon, to their amazement, laughed long and loud. "I do not claim to be the Master of the world, little mortal. But it might serve you all better if I disposed of you now, on my terms, rather than deliver certain of you to him as his servant demanded of me."

The Elves blinked and looked at him. "You... aren't serving him?"

The Dragon laughed again, still more loudly, gouts of flame shooting in the air. "No, I don't serve him. He is weak, decayed. As he was in the end when he unleashed my grandfather as a weapon against the lord of the star with that sting in his hands. Only a great will can command dragons and the self-proclaimed King in Angband is not what he was. " His eyes turned to them and then looked over to the camp. "I see none of your women, And I recognize none of you. I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve. And it was the women I was....given orders...to fetch," and his grin became ghastlier, if it were possible. "Something about a little bird...."

The words turned the fire in Turin's veins into a roaring inferno: he knew _that_ name all too well. It had been one of the names Morgoth had given to Arwen while he tormented her. Without thought, he sprang upon the beast, his fury blinding him. Dimly, he noted that Beren and Huan had actually made similar movements, and the three of them combined managed to cause enough 'wasp-stings' on the dragon that it reared up with a hiss, though no true damage had been done to its tough scales.

The Dragon laughed, "Well that confirms something, that the servant spoke of someone that actually existed. Since my errant would-be master desires her...." He turned his gaze back to the camp and then suddenly flared out his wings as a vast and intimidating shadow, his grin becoming surprisingly roguish and animated. "I shall have to tell him that I was disappointed by the valor of Elven arms. Or perhaps I'll just burn another of his armies. Sending me to fetch people." A gout of flame erupted into the sky. "I could have been a king of my own domain, luxuriating in a bed of jewels, and I am expected to fetch someone like a dog?" He raged at the sky as the humans, still enraged, found themselves poised in indecision and the dog continued to worry at his right paw before he noticed this and none too gently flexed Huan off, barreling him into the Elves with a casual display of strength.

"No." He grinned. "Let this be a lesson to you, vagabonds. The forces you see as evil are not a monolith. I will not kill you, not now. But in the future I may not be so kind." And then his eyes turned back to the camp and his voice went from jovial to a low and tectonic rumble. "And perhaps I shall come back and take this 'Little Bird' for my own, as anyone He values must be priceless indeed."

Malevolent laughter rumbled as the dragon took off into the air, and the Elves shook, but not nearly as badly as Túrin did. Hastily, he took his leave of the patrol without explanation, sending Maglor a long glance, as the Noldo would know why he would feel he could not tarry here now, he raced back into the camp. The dragon's words had left a chill in his blood and he needed to see with his own eyes that Arwen was well.

They had known, abstractly, that Morgoth might still seek for her, but to have it confirmed... It distracted him enough that, for the time being, the dragon's other words and threats slipped from his thoughts. Beren's reaction to the dragon's taunts, though, had been as violent and immediate as Túrin's own, and the younger Man puzzled about why: Beren could not know the significance of the 'little bird' that Morgoth sought... could he? It had taken years for Arwen to confide that to Nienor and to Túrin himself, and she barely knew Beren...

He did not see that Huan, surprisingly well for a being casually thrown with a force to shatter bones by a gigantic terrible lizard that had tossed him with brute force and malice aforethought was following him closely.

None gainsayed him, the presence and the lingering odor of Wyrm-reek meaning that very few people, only the most fool-hardy were without the tents. He heard a name from one of the newest visitors, Durin IV, a dour representative of a new and unlooked for augmentation of the ranks around the camp. "Smaug," It was a name spoken as a curse but it didn't register any more than the dour Dwarf did.

It did not take him long to arrive at the camp, though he took a couple of seconds to compose himself. Even a year later, he knew enough of Arwen's quiet worries that if he barged in on her in a panic that panic would be the least of how she'd respond to it. He opened the tent and slipped in, the relief at seeing Arwen with Nienor and one of her brothers, he still couldn't tell the two apart, was visible, as was the initial look of confusion on her face as she watched her brother and Niënor's conversation, and then a slow and dawning understanding that led to her mouthing "Definitely going to meet him tomorrow".

Túrin cocked his head in confusion, but shrugged. Whatever that meant he'd find out....later. Huan huffed and moved toward Arwen, resting his head in her lap as she smiled and moved with her less damaged hand to scratch him behind the ears. She then looked up at Túrin, her brow furrowed. "What happened? We had just returned inside from watching my brothers spar, when we heard cries of alarm, and that _smell_..."

Túrin's heart ached, wishing he could spare her more fear: she had endured enough in her life already! Still, she- and the others- needed to be alerted. "A dragon was sighted." He made it sound less frightening than it had been, since he could already see Nienor, in his peripheral vision, blanching, and Arwen tensed where she sat, her fingers knotting in Huan's fur, as if using him as grounding to steady herself. "Winged. It claimed _not_ to serve the Enemy, and only made threats before Huan, Beren and I saw it off." Fine, that was not _quite_ what had happened, but it would serve well enough as an explanation for now. "One of the Dwarven leaders named the beast Smaug, though the name is not familiar."

Arwen shrugged. "Well, I've never heard of him. Even... there... at most I heard... him... ranting that the 'last of the great ones' would not obey his orders and he hurt me, once, when he'd lost an army. He never told me why. Just.....ordered Thuringwethil to do what she did and does best." She winced. "Let me guess...." as her grip on Huan tightened slightly but the hound patiently just nuzzled her a bit. "He _is_ looking for me then, like I thought he was... a year ago?"

Túrin froze. "You knew?"

Arwen's laugh was slightly bitter and surprisingly harsh for her. "I never doubted. A year ago he was thrown out, so I've felt safer but he wouldn't forget his 'little bird'." (Túrin winced: that phrase again, with that harsh acidic tone that was jarring every time she used it). She paused, relaxing her grip on Huan and mouthing a soft apology and placing her head on his for a moment to accentuate it.

Then she looked at Túrin, took a deep breath, looked to Nienor, who nodded, and then decided to tell him what Thranduil had offered. Today... she understood that whether or not she liked the thought, she had no choice. “I know you will not like this, but earlier today, Thranduil offered additional weapons training to Nienor and I, when you and the twins are not here.” She stared him straight in the eye. “I wasn't certain to begin with, but now this has happened... I need to be able to at least try and defend myself if someone or something tries to take me captive again.” She'd gone ghostly-white at the very thought, but her eyes held Túrin's steadily.

He scowled, about to refuse out of habit: he was more than capable of defending his sisters, thank you very much! But then he inhaled deeply, paused and thought. He had not been here today, indeed had been nowhere near them when Smaug had appeared. And, as much as it stung, it would be best if both Nienor and Arwen received all the training in arms they could. He'd rather have taught them himself, of course, but he was needed on the borders too often. He took a deep breath of his own, made sure to regulate the sound of his voice. Things that came naturally now, but at the time when he'd encountered her in the woods would have been anything but. "All right. I do trust Thranduil even if I don't like him. And he does know his way around a blade. Good luck."

His gaze turned to the twin, one of Arwen's brothers with a raised eyebrow. The twin was interrupted from looking at his sister in a way that made the eyebrow rise further and his mouth part slightly, before he turned to first Túrin, and then to Arwen.

"It's good you came in, I wanted you both to be here when I returned this to her."

Arwen turned to him with her own raised eyebrow. "Returned what?"

He reached slowly to a leather string that hung around his neck, drawing it over his head, revealing a small, tightly knotted leather pouch. The material was scuffed and faded: clearly it had been worn for a long time. The Peredhel ellon only had eyes for Arwen now as he spoke, his words thick with emotion. "When Elrohir and I scoured Rivendell all those years ago, after you were... gone," His fingers deftly untied the tiny pouch, reaching for something within. "This was the only trace we found of you there."

He extended his hand, palm out, revealing an engraved mithril-and-pearl pendant that hung on a silver chain. "We have taken it in turns to wear, having both vowed to return it to you someday. We would have given it to you sooner, but..." He shook his head. "You didn't even remember us, it didn't seem fitting."

Arwen had leaned forward, her eyes widening. "The Evenstar jewel..." She shook her head, her eyes clouding with confusion- then anger. "I could have sworn... I remember, clear as day, _him_ taking it from me and smashing it into a thousand pieces on the ground, laughing as he did it."

Túrin edged closer, not to comfort Arwen, not yet, but to get a better look at the pendant. He'd seen it before, he was almost certain... "This was Arwen's?" He demanded of Elladan, the raised brow from earlier now joined by the other in amazement.

"Yes. Daernaneth and Daerada gave it to her the day she was born, why?" Elladan sounded honestly baffled.

Nienor, who'd moved to sit beside Arwen, was giving her brother an annoyed look- clearly, she had no idea what he was about.

"Do you know where it came from?"

"No..."

Túrin shook his head in disbelief. "That jewel was once worn by Melian herself. I cannot imagine how it came to be in Galadriel's possession."

Arwen looked at it in awe. "It was worn by... by Melian herself?" Her voice shook, and for a moment flashes of his voice echoed in her head and she shut her eyes, the jewel having a soothing effect and seeming to glow with a light of its own. She felt that light and seemed to hear a voice that her siblings heard, and for a change so did Túrin and Nienor, who jerked and looked around, puzzled. Huan gave a soft woof of familiarity, recognizing it.

Arwen stared at it, and almost mechanically went to slip it around her neck, and then felt a part of her that had been missing for a long time seeming to slide into place. It was an overwhelming thing and tears of joy and nostalgia and sorrow and a thousand other emotions flowed down her face for a time as she breathed twice more, and then her hand slid to it. She smiled, softly, a smile that was for a moment that of the Arwen who had been, and turned toward her brother. With a speed that she seldom displayed she hugged him tightly, as everyone around her stared in various kinds of bemusement and a sliding scale of happiness.

Only Elladan heard her whispering thanks into his ear, and he was amazed at how it still felt like a blessing- and it was- that Arwen let herself hug him like this. Him, Elrohir, Túrin, and Nienor were the only ones she trusted to see this side of her. He smiled in turn, and they enjoyed the moment. For a time, the threat of the Dragon and of the last words he'd spoken receded, and the people in the tent just enjoyed the warmth of a clear moment of joy in a time that offered so little room for it.


	3. Chapter 3

Lúthien could not keep from muttering to herself in annoyance as she fetched cloths to tend to the grazes Beren had accumulated during the altercation with the dragon Smaug. Not that she blamed him for attacking the creature- given the circumstances, what the beast had said of Arwen, it was understandable. No, the true cause of her anger and frustration was that she herself could not use any of her inborn power to track and deal with the creature, destroying the threat to Arwen. This one thing she longed to be able to do, for her several-times removed granddaughter, since Arwen still, after a year, would scarcely let Lúthien get within half a mile of her, and the elder elleth was at a loss as to how to bridge that gap.

To her surprise, Galadriel, her cousin and old friend, was in the healer's portion of the camp- oh. Belatedly, Lúthien noted that the Noldo elleth was replenishing the herb tinctures and medicines that the warriors so often needed after battle. Still half in her own mind, she only nodded a terse greeting to the golden-tressed elleth as she gathered what she needed.

Galadriel looked at her for a moment, the harried look on her face that showed with slight worry lines visible to those without the sight, and the weariness within showing so that her aura took on a stronger element of bright green. "Frustrating, isn't it?"

She looked up, as Galadriel paused in her work. "What do you mean?"

Galadriel snorted, the kind of noise expected more of the Artanis who was than the Galadriel who existed now. "You know what I mean. You want to go out and fight and use all that native ability to take the Enemy down."

Lúthien couldn't resist a slight, or more than slight acid tone to her voice. "And you don't?"

Galadriel met her gaze for only a moment before glancing down. "Battles won and lost over the years have taught me to choose the time to fight wisely, cousin. An ill-timed small victory could have a crippling affect upon the war we fight."

Lúthien sighed. "You were always the one who was more warlike than I was. I wasn't the one named man-maiden because I went out with a sword like the men. I envied you then, you know."

Galadriel's eyes widened in surprise. "You envied me? You didn't see your first combat saving one of your uncles from one of your cousins, and you didn't follow that by coming here. I know it sounds tempting." Her eyes looked to the north. "It always does, but in reality, it's a bloody sequence of events one after the other after the other. But... it would not just be you at risk, I'm afraid. We know he seeks her, Lúthien. He would seek you too if you made yourself vulnerable, and that would leave us in the same fix we were, or worse."

Lúthien gritted her teeth slightly. "Sometimes I think if something like that did happen Arwen might talk to me more. If....if it wasn't just her who had endured that."

Galadriel stared at her in alarm _._ “You... you cannot mean that. Do you even hear what you are _saying?_ He would almost certainly kill you.”

“We do not know that. Arwen lived.”

“Barely, if what Túrin and Nienor tell us is to be believed. And that might yet prove to be because he allowed her to do so!”

Lúthien bit her lip softly, not hard enough to draw blood, and the feeling of impotence intensified. She didn't like the sense of bitterness in her words and had a strong feeling Galadriel wouldn't like it either, but she couldn't stop the words that followed. "She can talk to Huan, and to Beren, she can be around them. Beren! In spite of what happened to her, and in spite of her... issues with men. She can even be around Legolas Thranduilion without wanting to run up a tree and hide or freezing in place. But me? Because of Morgoth's lies," and her jaw gritted slightly as her bitterness became leavened with anger, and for a moment her eyes almost shone with light in her wrath, "I cannot even be near her, or help her. She hates me. And I cannot fix that and I do not know how to even try."

Galadriel's alarm was tempered by more than a bit of initial anger, and then understanding and even sympathy. She placed her hand out on Lúthien's shoulder, gently _._ "I am afraid that nothing but time can change that. I know it is of small comfort to you to hear that, but you must remember, it is not truly _you_ that Arwen has been taught to fear and loathe: it was whatever warped version of you exists in Morgoth's eyes, that he has convinced her you are, that she shuns. She does not know the true you well enough to proclaim love or hatred for you."

Lúthien sighed again. "I know. But I hate to allow Morgoth even such small victories as these."

Galadriel's gaze became somewhat sharper. "You have more living kin than I do. None of my brothers have returned, nor any others of my kin. She is recovering, and if anything, you can take comfort in that she does reach out to Beren and to Huan. She's working to overcome what he did to her. We live long lives, Lúthien." A wry tone slipped into her words. "Some longer than others. But....time, and only time, can heal these wounds, for now." And her gaze flickered back to the north. "If I wasn't fully aware of how foolish it would be or that it would end in my death in any number of unpleasant means, I would wish to do the same as you. I owe Morgoth for the destruction of my family."

For a moment Galadriel's aura flashed with a brilliant green light and her skin became as burnished bronze, and Lúthien froze slightly.

"I also know exactly what he did to my daughter's eldest daughter, and I want vengeance for that as much as you do. It is not just but..." the light faded and she placed the materials she'd gathered down, shuddering for a moment. "I want it all the same. So I do understand. For now, all we can do is wait."

Lúthien shook her head. “You'll forgive me if I find that hard to accept. It just feels as if there must be _something_ I can do...” She inhaled deeply. “How bad could it truly be, if I simply attempted to speak to Arwen now, alone, but giving her space to walk away if she wished?”

“I would advise against that.” Galadriel's tone held an edge of warning. “She is still very fragile.”

“But for all these months, I have given her space. Surely, living in the same camp, she must realize we will cross paths eventually. And you know I will not speak of anything that will distress her.”

“Lúthien-”

But she strode away, deep in thought, before Galadriel could protest further. Surely engineering a meeting with Arwen for a casual reason: if she was merely seeking for Huan, or even Nienor, could do no great harm?


	4. Chapter 4

Celebrían was still uncertain just what to make of everything ever since...that day, a year ago now, which was all she'd come to think of it, and to be willing to call it. First thinking it was their daughter's voice that spoke to her, then Elrond's harsh dismissal of it from the secret sorrows he'd spoken of little until Elros had told her of them to her in a moment of unusual quietness from him.

Then the horrid confirmation of it and a sick fear in her heart that the next thing she would hear in her mind would be the screams of her daughter and the Enemy laughing as he tortured her and told her that her mother had done this to her.

Elrond, her beloved, remained chastened, only Alassë retaining her innate happiness, somehow, in spite of everything. A small part of her resented that a child could keep to this, but that part of her was very small indeed and easily silenced. She and Elrond had not spoken much to each other, nor of the fears that haunted them. The most terrifying thing was that Morgoth, never a being to exercise restraint, had given her a small glimpse of just what he intended and why, and the thought of her precious girl enduring that.....

Even just thinking of it made her want to rage and weep, tears burning in her eyes, her blood boiling in her veins. She would never, never forgive herself if she had brought that manner of horror upon her eldest daughter. "Nana? Can we go pick shells from the beach?" Alassë's ever-cheery voice broke into her thoughts, grating more than usual since her happiness was so much at odds with how Celebrían was feeling. It was an effort to even turn to look at her youngest child's hopeful face without snarling at her that she could not play with the elfling now, and wished to be left alone.

And yet, as Celebrían sighed outwardly and internally bit back a scream, she nodded. Her face put on a smile not quite as bright as Alassë's, and it didn't quite meet her eyes, but her voice was carefully cheerful and did not waver. “Of course, sweetheart. Let's go." She took her daughter's hand and gritted her teeth, her lips thin when her daughter sang a song that she did not know was one of Arwen's favorites. She had taught it to her daughter, thinking Arwen gone, but now, knowing she lived, and knowing how much reason her daughter had to be afraid meant that another set of emotions rocked her.

As they walked outside, there was a strange odor on the wind and a sound that was... improbable, and yet it tugged at Celebrían's memory: it sounded much like something from the stories her mother told her from the camps in the final days of the War of Wrath. That sound....it couldn't possibly be what she thought it was. Her father in law had killed the last of those things, hadn't he?

Clutching Alassë close to her, she stood tall, her neck craned, eyes searching the sprawling skies, scanning for any movement, praying she was wrong, or misinterpreting what she was hearing...

A vast shape, larger than any bird, came into view between one heartbeat and the next, its wings pounding louder than a hurricane, bringing with it a hot, dry wind that made the trees and wooden dwellings here creak and crack as if they would shatter completely. Celebrian swept Alassë into her arms, covering the elfling's eyes so she would not see the horror approaching, as she turned and raced back towards the main settlement, shouting as loudly as she could, hoping to alert the guards and have the alarm raised. "DRAGON!"

The creature that moved toward them in the skies was vast, its gaze seeming almost disinterested as it watched the Elves starting to scramble like displaced residents of a kicked anthill.

"I am Smaug, greatest and chiefest of calamities! Last of the great winged dragons! Grandson of Ancalagon the Great!" Its voice boomed like a thunderclap as the Elves froze. "I demand this area and all that is within it for myself. You have three days and three nights to leave, the next time that I return...."

He swooped down lower and then unleashed a gout of flame that consumed some of the trees on the outer edge of the camp, his winds nearly blowing Celebrían off her feet and blowing other less cautious Elves off of theirs.

"As a sign of my goodwill, go forth to the edge of the forest, and see what it is that I have saved you from. Remember that if this place is not cleared in three days and three nights it shall be you, next." It flew away, leaving a smothering silence forged of dread in its wake.

Moments later, the fear set in and Elves began racing hither and thither, seeking kin, or searching for one of their Lords or nobles to give them some reassurance.

Celebrían was almost bowled over in the rush, barely managing to keep her feet. She clung to her small daughter as tightly as she could, whispering reassurances as she could feel the elfling trembling, as she fought her way through the throng. She had to find her husband.

When she got to the tent where he and Elros had been spending the morning, her fear grew the greater to see both Elros and Elrond gone, though Eluréd and Elurín remained there, their eyes meeting hers.

Eluréd greeted her and explained before she could even ask the question.

"They heard his statement and they've gone to see what the monster said in that warning. The other people who aren't panicking right now are trying to to smother the fires."

His twin spoke more musingly. "You've always been wise, Celebrian. Right now, places like this are the safest places to be."

They waited for Elrond and Elros, for what proved to be a wait of two hours which seemed to drag on forever. Alassë had fallen asleep, curled up on a spare blanket, before light footsteps heralded Elrond and Elros' approach. Both Peredhil males slipped into their uncles' tent, their faces grim.

Celebrían and Eluréd and Elurín, the newest arrivals from the West, who were in that strange position of being simultaneously the oldest generation to arrive thus far, and being appearance-wise little more than the adolescents they were, looked to them warily.

They checked to make sure Alassë was not just asleep, but asleep soundly, before beginning their explanations. It was Elrond who spoke, his voice clipped.

"It was an army, or the ruins of one. The dragon killed it."

Celebrían stared mutely, her mouth gaping slightly, before blinking. "The dragon... killed one of the Enemy's armies?"

"Yes."

"I thought they served him?"

"Evidently this one does not, or or not entirely. It doesn't matter. Other people will know, by now." He sighed. "It was such a nice house we had here, too."

A sudden chill went through her at that thought. "You mean...."

He wrapped her in an embrace, as he often did when he needed reassurance of his own and would not admit it. His eyes closed. "This place is no longer safe for us, meleth nin. If an army of the Enemy can get this close..."

"And now this dragon taunts us," Elros added tightly.

Celebrían nodded shakily, understanding. "We will have to go. But... what of Cirdan? He will not wish to leave the shore. And what will become of any who come to us from the West if this place is deserted, or destroyed, or held by an enemy?"

Elrond sighed. "I don't know. I cannot believe the Valar will allow it to fall, nor that it is in their will to do so. We must go south. And if our other daughter is still alive and well and unharmed...." He sighed, deeply. "Then we will see what we will see. For what it's worth, as I have said before, I am sorry that I was prone to look for a deception where there was none. If I hadn't said what I said, when I said it..."

She shook her head. "We all make mistakes, beloved. Wisdom is in understanding and forgiving and forgetting, not in dwelling on them."

He held her tight and murmured "I knew I loved you for a reason."

Elros smiled wryly: "I'm sure there is an empty tent you two can use for... privacy, muindor, if you wish." He leered at them in an exaggerated fashion, before giving himself over to laughter.

Eluréd and Elurín grimaced in unison. "Do you _have_ to?" They both looked disgusted, and Celebrían almost laughed.

"I think we are offending your uncles' delicate sensibilities!"

Elrond shrugged as Eluréd and Elurín excused themselves, both slightly red-faced. "They'll get over it."


	5. Chapter 5

Túrin considered it a good patrol. He'd managed with surprising luck given his private fears about the curse and of dragons of not getting even minor injuries facing the gigantic winged thing. What was his name again? Smug? Smog? No, Smaug. That was it. He was on patrol with a different set of people, this time. Two of the Dwarves from Durin's bodyguard, the King sending them with a snarled curse in the direction of dragons, and three Elves all of whom were equally fortunate. He'd considered it moreso until he noticed something strange. Usually, the animals in the woods were noisier, around the camp. The typical background noise of the forest. Now they were absent, and that meant at best, Orcs. At worst....he didn't even want to think about the worst after Thuringwethil's encounter with Lúthien and Beren some months ago, and the dragon's words more recently.

The woods were silent and there was a strange and brooding aura, one that left him quiet, more respectful than usual. If it was an enemy it was not the kind to dismiss lightly, if it was a friend... He kept his hand upon the hilt of his sword, but left the weapon sheathed as he took care to move with more silence than he had been, slipping away from the Dwarves that he had been patrolling with. He would discern for himself who or what caused this silence, without the commentary from dour-minded Dwarves.

Hairs rose on the back of his neck: he was being watched, and yet, he sensed no threat. The sensation only grew as he strode more deeply into the woods, and the winds seemed to fall silent. His hand tightened on his sword hilt and he started to draw it when he heard a voice from his right side.

"Now now, young Túrin Húrinion, you have no need to draw your blade. You are a friend, and you are among friends." The voice that said this was deep and the kind that could describe rocks by type and name and make it sound interesting.

He whirled, to find two tall figures with long beards clad in blue robes, directly behind him. One was pale with a beard of reddish hue, his hood over his head, and holding a sack that seemed somewhat heavy, judging by his weight. The other was dark skinned, dark as the Haradrim, and had a small, short beard that covered his chin, the smallest and shortest of the Istari. His long dark hair flowed down his neck and his blue eyes gazed keenly at Túrin. He continued to speak: "The time of destiny draws close, son of Húrin. In Pallando's hands, you shall find the first things that shall lead you to it."

He stared, his eyes wide and cocked his head, shaking it a little. Both of the strange figures laughed, the speaker continuing with a distinct note of amusement in his voice. "I can assure you we are as real as your good friend you encountered in the woods that day near that cabin."

He blinked. "So you're Maiar, too?"

They nodded eerily, almost in unison.

“Pallando I have already introduced to you,” the speaker continued. “I am, in these lands, known as Alatar.”

Túrin could barely keep from laughing bitterly. “Is it custom for Maiar in these times to emerge from nowhere, startling their allies, then speak in naught but riddles?”

Alatar grinned. "Here and in the Undying Lands, son of Húrin."

Túrin's eyes were drawn to the sack, and he went to take it, jolting slightly at the weight. "Eru's sword, what's in this thing? Rocks?" Opening it, his eyes went very, very wide indeed. "Is that....."

Pallando smiled, his grin... enthusiastic. Túrin did not want to insult a being who reminded him strongly of Mithrandir by saying such a smile hinted at being crazed, but...

"Yes, it is. Galvorn. The Morgoth-bane."

"The.....the.....is the breastplate....glowing?"

Alatar spoke, then. "A blessing from the Star-Kindler herself." The men, if men they were, moved past him, Alatar briefly placing his hand on his shoulder and leaning in to speak quietly into his ear. "Consider that marking and that sign of blessing when you deem yourself forever damned by the curse."

The emotion that tore through Túrin then was too piercing to describe. He bowed his head as the two Maiar departed, his throat too choked to speak as he slowly, gently, reached to touch the emblazoned star upon the night-dark armor. His hand trembled as his fingertips brushed the shining surface, and a flood of warmth, of tenderness and acceptance, coursed through him.

He fell to his knees, letting his tears fall as his head tilted back, and he whispered thanks and a prayer for forgiveness to the star-studded sky, and to She who had made it, and to her brethren.

The wind began to blow again and in it he almost swore he heard a voice that told him: _'_ _You have always been forgiven, for the curse was upon you, it was not of you_ _.'_

The warmth intensified and he remained on his knees for several minutes, before taking the armor that before had felt heavy and now felt curiously light, even as the weight revealed itself in a physical sense. He decided to cut the patrol short, to show this to his blood sister, his chosen sister, and his new... well, they weren't fully family yet but only because he hadn't told them that he viewed them as such.

Hopefully it would help get Arwen somewhat out of her gloom, too. With a big and entirely uncharacteristic smile on his face, he turned to the camp, moving with a brisk pace, the Dwarves staring in confusion that was clarified when he explained the appearance of the two Wizards, the one pale and ginger-haired, the other dark haired and dark-skinned. Apparently, the Dwarves had had dealings with these 'Blue Wizards' before, and their names were known to them. Deciding to trust Túrin's judgement, the people with him followed him back, though they remained on a patrol closer to the camp just in case something else chose to creep out of the woods.

Túrin had barely made it ten strides into the camp when the pounding of huge paws sounded. Expecting Huan to have to come to greet him (it would not be the first time), his smile widened: the Hound was always so friendly in his greetings, provided he liked you. Instead of Huan however, what came barrelling towards him was a dog of strange proportions, sturdier in build and face than Huan, with unusual black fur. It was running headlong, seeming heedless of where it was going, nor aware of Túrin's presence, for it plowed straight into him, knocking the wind from him and toppling him to the ground, and just continued its headlong flight into the forest.

Túrin, puzzled, had only just begun to clamber back to his feet, when _more_ paw-thuds sounded, and Huan bounded into view, nose to the ground, clearly following the other dog's scent-trail, although the great Hound was not growling or snarling, nor were his ears pinned or teeth bared, as they would be if this other dog was some enemy. Huan, to Túrin's relief, _did_ see him there, and neatly leaped over him, continuing his pursuit of the strange black dog.

Seconds after that, light footsteps sounded, and Lúthien of all people raced into the clearing, pale-faced and looking gravely concerned. She almost tripped over him and brought herself to a halt, tear streaks visible on her face.

Túrin looked around in utter confusion, blinking rapidly. "Was I in Lorien's realm just now or did a great black dog just run into me out of nowhere?"

Lúthien looked at him and remained silent, almost ashamed, and then he worked himself to his feet, hoisting the armor at his back.

"What's wrong?" He scarcely knew her, really, but, well, allowing for his fostering in Doriath, so long ago, she would be his foster-sister, and he had never seen her so visibly upset.

Lúthien wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and began to speak. Túrin listened, dumbfounded, to the tale she began to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, the speech in italic and underlined is the voice of Manwe.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sections written in italic are flashbacks to earlier scenes.

Lúthien's voice seemed choked up at points, and her tone regretful. Until now Túrin hadn't heard her speak like this, though as he listened on, he began to understand exactly why:

 _Lúthien walked to the tent she knew Arwen shared with Nienor. If anyone asked, she was just going to check on Huan, and perhaps to talk to Nienor. She heard Arwen speaking with a tone that she hadn't heard her use before, one that she wasn't entirely sure that Arwen could or would use, in all truth. She was excited, confident. Discussing how familiar it seemed to hold a blade and miming some of the motions she mentioned Thranduil had shown her. That, if anything, made Lúthien more determined, not less. What a smug and belligerent oaf like Thranduil could do, she could do also._ _She did pause to ascertain just who Arwen was speaking to, as, if Nienor, Elladan or Elrohir were there, then her plan was unlikely to work: they would not let her speak to Arwen alone, and Lúthien fully believed that might make a difference, if they could have this out between them without an audience. Heavy panting became audible, and Lúthien smiled sadly. It was heartbreaking that Arwen seemed more confident speaking to Huan than she did speaking to her own family, or any other Elves for that matter. Her determination to try and get through to this poor daughter of her line intensified, and, making her posture as calm and gentle as she was capable, she slipped into the tent._

_Arwen's voice remained excited as she asked Huan, "Shall we go and clean up the armor?" Luthien stepped further into the tent. Arwen, no doubt thinking herself alone, was holding two vambraces, with a helmet and mail-shirt in a pile at her side, before freezing solid, her eyes very wide and her face pale, as her eyes met Lúthien's own. Lúthien gave her her warmest, most welcoming smile, even putting some of her Ainur aura into it._

Her face was particularly pained when she admitted this. Túrin did not quite react the way to this that she knew her mother would, and certainly not the way Galadriel had earlier. His teeth were clenched, face taut with anger. "You approached her alone, even knowing how she would most likely react, and in a situation where she no doubt felt cornered and trapped?" Lúthien winced. Phrased that way, it did sound foolish. Túrin was clearly struggling to control his temper, speaking in a tone of forced calm. "What happened next?"

_Arwen remained silent for a moment, mouth gaping, before she closed her eyes and dropped the vambraces onto the pile of other discarded armor, which to Lúthien's more than slight relief made less of a clanging sound than she expected when it hit the ground. She kept her eyes closed and wrapped her arms around herself._

_"Arwen?" Her voice was cautious, her descendant and lookalike saying nothing in response. She stepped a little closer, bending forward so as to be nearer Arwen's huddled form._

Túrin's gaze intensified, his brow furrowed and she flushed. With the benefit of hindsight, Galadriel had tried to warn her and she really should have listened.

_"Arwen, please look at me.” She placed a hand straight onto Arwen's shoulder, and what happened next stunned her._

_Arwen flung her arms up violently, forcing Lúthien's hand from her, crossing her arms over her head protectively as she scrambled backwards. Her eyes were wild, unseeing, and a keening whimper came from her throat. Huan actually barged past Lúthien to get to Arwen, whining and nosing at her anxiously, but she did not respond, yet, as his fur brushed her skin, her eyes focused, if only for an instant. Her aura blazed with a strength Lúthien had not imagined her capable of, and between one heartbeat and the next, Arwen had shed her elleth form, changing her self into a canine of sorts, snapping at Lúthien, letting out a heart-rending cry, and tearing out of the tent and away._

_Huan followed her quietly as Lúthien stared, completely and utterly bemused at what she'd seen, before she decided to follow Arwen, at which point she'd almost tripped over Túrin._

Her story trailed off with an uncharacteristic stammer and Túrin, remembering the blessing he'd been given with his armor, just pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. Yelling at Lúthien was tempting, but it wouldn't change the situation or make it any better for anyone else. Besides, he had a pretty good feeling that anything he would use to recriminate her would be echoed more passionately by a great many other people, so he wouldn't prove necessary there.

As if the thought had made itself more directly known, a familiar voice cleared her throat and Lúthien stiffened, turning paler than she already was (abstractly, Túrin noted that it was a rather marvellous change in its own way) as she turned and saw Galadriel looking at her with a look she'd hoped never to see.

“So, did your well-thought out plan turn out as you hoped?” The bite of sarcasm in Galadriel's voice was unmistakable, and Lúthien winced.

“I did not intend...” She trailed off, feeling miserable. Obviously she had not meant to cause the harm it seemed she had, but what was the use in saying that now, now the damage was done?

Galadriel looked as if she would retort once more, and Túrin, in a decision that most would consider unwise, stepped between the two powerful ellith and interrupted her.

“Perhaps we should locate Arwen before you two continue this disagreement?” He shook his head, bemused. “I did not even know that Arwen _could_ shapeshift...”

Galadriel blinked, and stood still for a moment. "She did what?"

"She shifted shape. From her true form to a dog, of some sort. A black dog, I think. I did not really get a good look at her before she ran into me."

Galadriel had been sarcastic before to Lúthien but hearing that her granddaughter, the one that everyone knew, by now, that Morgoth was searching for, had run away from a safe place when he was actively hunting her, meant her mood changed from sarcasm to genuine fury. When later asked to describe it, Túrin said only that 'she was beautiful and terrible as the dawn'.

Lúthien just turned paler still and remained silent. And yet Galadriel's voice, when she spoke, was low, calm, deceptively sweet to mortal ears. Lúthien gulped at hearing the low tone of anger, the way the words were deliberately and slowly spoken, each syllable enunciated like a hammer ringing on an anvil. "You made my granddaughter feel cornered to the extent that she ran away into the woods?"

And, naturally, it was at that very moment that Niënor and Elladan stepped into view (arm in arm but Túrin barely noticed that at that point). Elladan looked slowly from Túrin, to Lúthien, then Galadriel, and his expression turned wary. "What's going on?"

Galadriel turned to him and he saw the same fury in her eyes that was barely contained, and the way her body had... changed somewhat and it registered on the three that whatever it was could wait. With uncomfortable expressions on their faces they walked backwards, slowly, only a low whistle from Elrohir marking that they were aware of just how dangerous the situation was.

"Galadriel, I..."

Galadriel raised her hand. "There is nothing you can say right now that will help you, so your best idea, right now, Lúthien Thingoliel, is to be silent."

Lúthien's mouth closed and she could not keep from trembling. It was then that Nienor and the twins turned to see Huan trotting out of the woods, holding the shreds of a torn dress, and their reactions had them whirling straight back to face the tent. Their expressions were a mixture of emotions that would have made capturing their faces a task to tax the most brilliant Elven artists of the Undying Lands. Huan just ignored them, which was uncharacteristic of him, and as Lúthien turned, she saw the dress dropped in the tent.

She did not understand just how foolish her next decision was, between her desperate desire to make things right and a not at all subtle fear of Galadriel, whose anger literally burned out of her with a tangible light of a greenish hue, but when she started to move toward the woods, Huan did something to her that she had never heard him do in two lifetimes. He snarled, his teeth shining, and his fur bristling, making her freeze in utter shock- and hurt.

Huan briefly looked to Túrin, who by now had learned to almost 'read' his body language to a point that it was like he spoke. His words were to Túrin, not to Lúthien, and it was something he read clearly. Alone of the people in the room, he relaxed, realizing why Huan had followed Arwen, and why he now slunk away to the woods once more, after giving his mistress one last baleful glare.

No-one else in the tent noticed this exchange, and in retrospect, most would feel foolish that one of the people who would always be a fairly hot tempered and belligerent sort was in retrospect one of the calmest people in the entire camp.


	7. Chapter 7

Lúthien sat down heavily on a log, her shoulders slumped. For the past three weeks, since her... unfortunate encounter with Arwen, she had tried to busy herself with the tasks she usually carried out in the camp, but whereas, before, she had been greeted with warmth and friendship, now, at best, there were whispers behind her back. At worst, when she crossed paths with Túrin, Nienor, Elladan and Elrohir, or Celeborn and Galadriel, she received nothing but icy, criticizing silence. She had never known anything like it before, was at a loss as to how to go about mending it. Beren had been kind to her, of course, but even he could not fully conceal his thoughts about her mishandling of approaching Arwen.

She had a good feeling that the hostility wouldn't be less if they knew that she'd snuck back into the tent once, two days ago, when Túrin and Elrohir were out on patrol and Elladan and Nienor were enjoying their new budding feelings together, and taken something she had been deeply puzzled to see. An object, a pendant, of her mother's no less. There was so little left of her mother besides herself and her family that when she saw it, she had not stopped herself from taking it. She had heard for a moment her mother's voice and a tone of surprise and then placed the pendant in a safe place, lest this give her away.

Now, glancing around to ensure she was alone, she pulled it from the sash tied around the waist of the gown she was wearing, watching it gleam in the light for an instant, before closing her hand around it, cradling it as the precious reminder of Melian that it was.

"Naneth... I wish you were here to help me... I cannot put right what I have done wrong." She hung her head, tears pricking her eyes. There was an odd vibration, almost a hum, from the pendant, and her eyes flew open in shock.

_'This does not belong to you, iell nin.'_

She blinked. "N-Naneth?"

 _"Yes, my daughter._ " Melian's voice, however, far from sounding comforting as Lúthien had hoped, was stern, with an edge of anger. _'Why do you have that which was bequeathed to another, Lúthien? How came you by it?'_

Lúthien took a deep breath and then told her mother the same story she'd told twice now. Others had interrupted her in the telling. Melian listened, she knew her mother was listening, but she said nothing. She remembered all too well from Doriath that Melian's silent anger was much more fearsome than any time she let it show. She told Melian first as much of what she knew happened to Arwen as she knew to say (and she felt Melian's shock and anger and fury pulsing in one instance not directed at her, one that made the pendant hot to the touch).

Then the story itself, putting her actions into that context. She'd had little to do at points besides brood over it, and as she described it the third time she understood the folly of her actions more deeply than before, which was good as far as it went, but she knew could not repair what was already done. Her mother remained silent, listening until her daughter trailed off, voice stammering once again, this time not from shock or shame so much as tears and guilt. The silence continued pressing on her, building, until at last, Lúthien's words burst out. "Is there _nothing_ I can do to set this right?"

Melian remained silent a couple of minutes longer, though Lúthien grasped at this point that it was her mother thinking, measuring her actions. In her impulsiveness she was much more Thingol's daughter than she was her mother's, and it was at this time that she felt some degree of regret for it.

_"You shall have to wait until my... descendant returns from where she is, first. For now, my daughter, the anger will not cease, nor the disappointment, until she does so."_

There were emotions there that Lúthien could not quite parse, emotions she knew were directed at the Great Enemy, and others that could be felt but to her were both real and unreal at the same time, and she was not sure what to make of them.

 _"I am angry at your actions, my daughter, not at you. You have always been like Thingol in that your heart leads you to act, and to yield to the passion that burns within you._ " For a moment there was a soft and nostalgic emotion, and then she felt another presence she had not felt in a long time, and could 'see' her mother holding her father's hand.

_"It is not the worst of all things, it brought your father to me, and if you were not thus, you could never have gained Beren or the Silmaril. But it has its price."_

Tears stung once again in Lúthien's eyes, but she managed to nod, and, exerting her will, 'called' a greeting to her Adar as well. Him, she had not expected to see again until the Unmarring, and the pain-joy-love she could sense from him, even across the vast Sea, were strong enough to let the tears fall.

Melian then spoke again, mind-to-mind. _'You claimed that A- a vampire was involved in the child's torment?'_

There was an unease, a worry in her mind that Lúthien could feel her mother keeping shielded within her innermost self, and she wondered at that.

Lúthien nodded. "An old enemy. One I'm all too familiar with." And the bitterness flowed in her voice, as she felt a sudden spike of emotions from her mother that left her puzzled. When her mother had those feelings long ago, she had not questioned them then, in the Doriath of old, not after her Ada had talked to her as a younger Elleth and told her that her mother had some griefs that were there, and which none could quite help her through.

Now, holding Arwen's pendant, with not one but two reunions she had never expected to be blessed to have, she was not remotely inclined to break that old rule and to ask questions: she would not sully this moment. Instead she just cautiously sent a pulse that would have been the kind of hug she would have given, something her mother would have returned and the two sitting together in silence following, sometimes up to an hour's time. Melian did not follow through with that question and Lúthien was not, in truth, entirely regretful. The vampire had hurt Arwen's brothers, too, to keep her from finishing the job of slaying it, and that memory stung as well as another.

Melian's next statement was not ósanwe, but words. " _The world is changing, Lúthien. The time of its remaking draws near. On that day, we will be united in body. You have... a part to play in all this, and while I am angry at the circumstances, I do not regret getting to see you again._ " She felt something then, on the wind. It was like her mother's touch when she was younger and struggling with the vast gifts her mother's nature had given her, not certain if they were gift or curse until she had gained age and knowledge to control them. The soft caress that could make the shadows and the... other things truly a gift, back then. She leaned into the not-really-a-touch, wishing it could last, but grateful for the brief comfort nonetheless.

 _'Be certain to return the pendant to Arwen when she returns. It means more than you understand, my daughter.'_ Melian's voice, and the knowledge of her presence, and Thingol's, faded, leaving Lúthien shivering in the 'cold' of their absence, although both their voices echoed in her mind before they were gone, speaking the words most dear between any parents and children: 'We love you.'

Lúthien felt tears down her face, tears that for the first time in... a very long time, were those of warmth and of something she had missed more than she had ever known. She put the pendant back into her sash, carefully, and held herself, just letting herself acknowledge what how it felt to hear those voices once more. She felt another presence stepping in, one that was friendly and reminded her of Mithrandir, though it was not him.

He had announced himself and given her time for her composure, which meant she flinched a little and wondered that if she had done this, if things might have gone better with Arwen.

She turned to see him after drying her eyes. It was who she suspected, the tall and dark-haired and dark-skinned Wizard Alatar. He gave her another thing she had not had in... now three weeks. A look that was understanding, sympathetic, and not the least bit leavened with anger. He took a moment to gather his words after looking around, and then began to speak.

"I know that it is a hard thing to go from being someone universally loved and admired, not least from stories told long after you... well, after you took the gift of the Allfather to men. You were loved, and you are loved for a reason. It may seem like people hate you, but they do not. They are angry that you did not listen to advice given, though I am not entirely sure why they would have expected it. You have a good heart, Lúthien Melianiel, and you have always had one. If you were the kind of person to listen to advice you would have remained here in the Great Lands married to Daeron, a life slower and much emptier than the one you lived. You have done great things with who you are, and what you are. None of that changes because of this." He looked at her, half serious, half amused. "Those who know you should understand that when you see a part of your family struggling with secret sorrows... with your heart, and your history of acting to do what's right, Morgoth take the hindmost, they should have expected this to have happened sooner. You are not the kind of person who could have seen another suffering and not tried to do something about it. Was it wise? No. But there is nothing anyone else can tell you that cuts deeper than your own guilt, so I will not belabor that point."

Lúthien managed a small smile, for his words were true, if not necessarily easy to hear. "Thank you." He was wise, wiser than she had given him credit for, although she barely knew him, given his long years deep in the East, and that he kept himself somewhat aloof from the day to day affairs of this camp. "Perhaps, if you're willing, you could teach me how to check my actions more carefully in the future, that I do not make such an error again?"

Alatar smiled. "I could make the effort, yes, but I don't think you have as much to fear as you think you do. This is the price of your goodness. You act where others would deliberate, and in this world much of the time it works out well, with results that stand the test of the ages. And sometimes it leads to a Feanorian dungeon, or your family estranged. I don't think you need a mentor to change who you are." His smile became friendlier. "You just need someone who can listen, and who is here without the... emotional clouding that affects the rest of the camp. Even my good friend Olorin has that, though he is not entirely convinced that he does. He forgets, at times, that we are in bodies of mortal fashion, and that we can be as clouded by that as any other. It is no help that that damn fool Curunir got himself killed so he has to shoulder his burdens as well as those he was meant to carry on his own."

Here Alatar snorted. "I never did think Curunir should have been appointed to lead us, but none of that alters the world here any more than your actions do.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “Arwen will return, Lúthien, and you may be surprised at what you see when you meet her again."

"I hope you are right." Nonetheless, she felt somewhat reassured as she stood and brushed leaves and lichen from her gown, having already decided to seek Beren and at least clear the air between them, since at present, no-one else displeased with her was likely to listen. "Did you seek me out merely to console me in my wallowing?" She smiled, taking any unintentional bite from her words.

Alatar smiled. "No, not at all. You looked like you needed a friend, and a new one at that." With that he too turned to go speak to Mithrandir. He understood why the new leader of the Order had the reactions he did, but three weeks into this, he felt that Mithrandir's actions needed at least something of a reminder that the mortals looked to them for leadership, and a pattern of turning on one person for a mistake, however serious the mistake, was at one remove understandable under those burdens... yet it was something that would need to at least be noted for what it was, if not corrected.

He watched young Lúthien, for to him, even one who had been born in the Age of the Bliss of Valinor _was_ young, depart, then, when she was out of sight, set off determinedly to find Mithrandir. Lúthien, and young Arwen, each had a role to play in bringing this war to its end. This he knew, although the details were clouded, but neither of them could be at odds with each other or their allies if things were to play out as Eru Allfather intended.

* * *

Arwen and Huan were sunning themselves in their favorite clearing. She had come to love this place, to love the way that Arien's light felt like something cleansing. Another week had passed, one where she had joined Huan in chasing Tevildo again (that was always fun). One where she'd had the first appearance of a new nightmare, herself screaming in pain with a pool of blood and... something and a sense of aching loss that she could not quite understand.

She had awoken from that nightmare in the dead of night and then hidden herself deeply in shadows until morning, unable to sleep again. In the noontide light she was able to gain the sleep she'd missed, and thus she missed an appearance of a being who would have fascinated her had she seen him. He was tall and dark-skinned, though not as dark-skinned as Alatar, with hair brown as the branches of the Olvar that he protected. His beard was long and thick and shaggy, enough that mortals that encountered him often thought it had to be fake.

He was just amused, he'd seen thicker beards on some of the Easterlings who'd come to the House of Last Resort with the Blue Wizards, though there people in those cultures also thought _they_ were fake, too. In his hand there was a staff that looked like both the branch and trunk of an oak tree. His gaze was calm and soothing. He had felt Arwen's presence in the form of a hound the moment she had set foot in that shape into his protection, though she did not know it, and had immediately chosen to take an action on impulse, guessing that Mithrandir would react... poorly to things. He had sent a moth to send a message, and he hoped that Mithrandir had understood the message but one could never tell.

At present, Arwen's canine form lay sprawled in a heap, her limbs and fur mingling with Huan's. She was in a deep sleep, the watcher noticed, but Huan merely dozed, keeping one eye open, no doubt alert for danger. The brown-robed Istar smiled, remembering a much younger Huan, newly whelped, who thought nothing of sleeping wherever and whenever he pleased (including on Lord Manwe's throne, at one stage.)

Huan must have caught his scent then, for the great Hound lifted his muzzle, swivelling his head in the Istar's direction. His nostrils flared, then he must have recalled the scent, because his tongue lolled in a canine grin, tail swishing back and forth on the ground, yelping a quiet greeting before laying back down, his head beside Arwen's, guarding her and no doubt trusting the Istar, his old friend, to do the same.

Radagast simply smiled and nodded, confirming the dog's hopes. Only he would know that Arwen Elrondiel's new freedoms from Morgoth had been largely hers. All he had done was give her the rasp to cut the bars on the prison and trust that she would use it.

That was how they had been meant to be, symbols, aides, guides. He felt a great deal of pride in young Elrondiel's growth, and while his was not a mission that would take him to meet the rest of the Order until the last battle and the day of doom, he confessed to wishing he could be a bee on the wall listening to that reunion. He strode on, knowing that while he could order a bee to do such a thing, there were greater tasks that never ceased. The Huorns were more alert than usual and he would need to act, to keep them from becoming restless, for Huorns when roused were threats to those who were their nominal allies as much as their enemies.


	8. Chapter 8

Lúthien sat, as she often sat when Beren was not around these days, alone. She had just finished a very.... interesting conversation with Mithrandir, one she suspected or more than suspected was connected to the talk she'd had with Alatar.

 _“_ _Lúthien Melianiel, I wish to extend my apologies for letting my... emotions cloud my judgement. I was angry and I was afraid that history would repeat itself. I was unfair to you where I should have been someone who sought to mediate, and to be a voice of balance. The idea that you had was not and is not wrong to have, or to have had. The timing... that could have been given more deliberation but that's never been your way. And I let myself forget that out of worry that I, that we, would face something more dangerous. You do have a good heart, daughter of Melian, and you shall not be as alone as you were, nor shall there be such... quietness... about the way people react to you in anger, seeking to blame one who has not caused the true wounds. The real enemy is in the north, not in this camp, and too easily is this forgotten.” She had taken his hand and shaken it when he extended it, flashing him a cautious smile._

It had been a long and lonely month, and she was waiting, now, with others. When her descendant returned, she knew the first, simplest thing she would tell her, two sentences: “I'm sorry, Arwen, I should have been more patient, not cornered you as I did. I acted without truly thinking of you.” Of course, the matter of just when Arwen would return was still unknown, but at least they could be reasonably certain she was safe: Morgoth's forces that hunted her would surely not be searching for a canine, and besides, Arwen had Huan to protect her.

Of course, Lúthien had no way of knowing that at that very moment, Huan was stealing back into the camp, alone. The Hound's head was down, nose to the ground, ears low, moving rapidly, as if something drove him in haste towards the tents, and it was obvious he had a clear destination in mind, for he paid attention to little else. He slid into the tent neatly as he pleased, hearing the rest of his pack talking. The twins were close together, one of them with his arm in the arm of the woman, the man talking enthusiastically about his new coat. Huan snorted at that. One of the many advantages four-legs had over two legs was that his fur was warm enough, and he didn't need to create new fur to replace it! That didn't matter at present, he needed... for a moment he paused and made a slight huff. Of course the only dress he could find out and convenient to use happened to be one _she_ made. That didn't matter, haste did. He began to root at it, trying to get it to where he could grasp it, not noticing that the conversation had halted, nor the simultaneous deep breath of relief from the people in the tent.

"Excuse me one moment," said the woman, as she squeezed the Elf's hand gently, and walked over to Huan. She took the dress and neatly draped it over him, kneeling beside him for a moment to whisper in his ear. "Thank you for keeping her safe."

Huan gave a single soft bark of acknowledgement, then slipped out as he'd slipped in, none in the camp but they the wiser to his appearance. He trotted back out to the woods, to the clearing he and the pup had made their den over these few weeks, and barked once again to signal his return.

The pup was half-concealed in the thick undergrowth, back in her two-legged form, extending a slender arm for what Huan had brought, although she hesitated when she saw the garment, no doubt because _she_ had been the one to make it for her.

Huan understood the pup's reticence, but still... _'She made it just for you.'_ He told her, trying to encourage her. _'She meant well. Some dogs bite harder than they mean.'_ Fine, his mistress had 'bitten' with words, but the pup would know what he meant. She looked at the dress for a moment, then steeled herself with a deep breath, and took it from him. He waited patiently, knowing that this pup needed both her time and her space, and then she stepped out. Barefoot, but wearing a black dress with a red fringe, and long red sleeves. She looked at her arms and at the dress again, taking another deep breath, and then told him in that speech they had come to share as their own.

 _'_ _Thank you. Shall we go back, then?'_

He barked affirmatively, and bent down and let her slip onto him to ride, as Lúthien had done, back in the day, Arwen leaning closely and whispering to him the same words that the woman in the tent had whispered to him, with almost the same emotions. And then he was off!

Arwen felt... different. A lot stronger in herself, more confident, than she had the day she had fled the camp, as if these few weeks without other people around to support her, talk to her and crowd her, had allowed her to think clearly once more, without the stranglehold of fear. Other, strange memories had resurfaced too, of another time spent in animal guise, in a different place, a more fraught time than this had been, a time when she'd been forever running and hiding from Orcs, with the taste of rancid black blood in her mouth, when she'd changed form and fled after the first time Morgoth had... She shied away from that particular memory, instead puzzling over why, if she had been able to shift forms and flee his fortress on that occasion, why, upon her recapture, had she not done so again?

The image of the heavy iron shackles he had clapped upon her when the Pale Orc and his fellows had dragged her back to him appeared in her mind: had they been part of why she hadn't been able to change form again? Perhaps she could ask her brothers, later, what they knew of such arts, or perhaps even Thranduil or Maglor might know if such things were possible...

Huan bore her into the camp, and she could feel his tail wagging. Without pause, he headed for her own tent, no doubt intending to leave her there. She sat up, ensuring he could run no further, and he halted, turning his shaggy head to glance at her, puzzlement in his eyes.

Arwen inhaled deeply. Parts of her mind still shrieked against what she had decided to do, but she knew this had to be done, to restore peace among her family. 'Huan, before we go to my tent, I think I should- I need to go and speak to Lúthien, if you'll take me there.”

Huan barked excitedly- clearly, he did not truly like being at odds with his mistress, despite what had happened- and he bounded off once again. Arwen clung to him more tightly, her heart pounding louder with each thud of his paws. This was necessary, but it might not be easy, to face Lúthien once again, after so many misunderstandings.

It took him very little time to find Lúthien, who was not at her tent. Arwen felt some misgivings at this, and wondered just what had happened in that month of her absence. She'd fled, yes, but it should have surprised no-one that she would flee if she was cornered, then, as she was (and she wasn't altogether sure even after her... growth if that would not repeat itself in the same kind of circumstances). She dismounted, scratching Huan.

"Thank you," she said softly, and then she moved quietly to Lúthien. A small, spiteful part of her wished to surprise the older elleth as Lúthien had surprised her, and she found herself able to move with a stealth that meant she was there and could be seen, if any had looked to see, but she could not be focused on, eyes would have found themselves drawn elsewhere until she had moved and it would have seemed a sight out of a dream.

She went to Lúthien and that same small spite in her led to history repeating itself after all, as she leaned down and placed her hand on Lúthien's shoulder.

Lúthien started, her eyes wide and turned around. For an instant, pettiness made Arwen maintain her suggestion of not being seen, and she found herself relishing her ancestress' clear discomfort, before dropping the veil and revealing herself.

“Arwen!” Lúthien clasped a hand to her breast in shock, exhaling deeply. “You startled me. I...” She appeared ill at ease, unsure. “I am glad you've returned.” She edged backwards, clearly uncertain whether or not Arwen wished her to be close.

Arwen shook her head slightly and Lúthien slumped. The pettiness and bile that Arwen had felt seemed to vanish and with it something different took its place. Guilt, and no small amount of worry. She knew enough of her ancestor to know this wasn't like her. For the first time, she made herself say the name she'd been forced to answer to, to the person it had always rightfully belonged to.

"Lúthien, I..." for a moment she paused. She had changed, she had grown, she could do this. "I'm sorry I ran off like that. You startled me, and I let that fear and... other things cloud my mind. You have tried to reach out to me and...." she paused, took another breath and didn't notice that Lúthien's startled nature had changed slightly and subtly, her holding a breath with hope and other emotions warring within her. "I did not know how to respond to that. But... I have a better idea, now." She extended her hand. "We were never enemies, but... truce?"

Lúthien eyed her for a long moment, as if assessing whether or not she meant her words, then slowly nodded. Huan huffed his approval, wagging his tail, giving a lick to Arwen's hand, then Lúthien's, clearly pleased the quarrel was, if not over, then easing.

"Arwen?" A voice and hurried footsteps sounded, as both ellith and the hound turned to look.

She tensed at first, and upon seeing Beren, relaxed, and gave him a soft smile.

Lúthien spoke then, voice still slightly shaken by Arwen's ability to veil herself (and again the guilt spiked, there was enjoying a small bit of pettiness and there was actively relishing scaring someone, that wasn't like her. And it worried her at a level she did not understand then and would not until much later). "Oh. There is one other thing," she said with a soft wariness. She moved to a pocket in her tunic and moved out a cloth that held something in it, handing it to her.

Arwen took it, eyebrow raised, and then sighed a deep relief as if some part of her she had missed had returned to her again when she saw it was her pendant. She remembered Túrin's words, and then her eyes met Lúthien's. "You took it because it was from her, didn't you?"

Knowing who she meant, Lúthien nodded, and Arwen let herself smile, instinctively understanding.

"She talked to me when I wore it last, and before then, I think. Did she talk to you, too?"

Lúthien nodded, and Arwen felt for the first time in a very long time some softness to her ancestress. "I'm glad," and to her surprise found that she meant it. She moved off, giving Beren a wave, and let her powers veil her from sight once again. Seeing Lúthien, of all people, alone and with such sorrow in her meant that the worry over her disappearance had only grown, and she needed to hear at least some of what had happened. She'd thought it would just be a matter of healing the rift between herself and Lúthien, but this...

What she heard made her emotions spike more. There was anger, and it was directed at Lúthien. Phrases more cutting than her own, and that recognition and those parallels made her start to think. Yes, her fleeing was worth some anger, but four weeks on? Of their own accord, her eyes turned north. The Enemy had always done best when his foes turned upon each other, and when lies and hatred, or one or the other, worked his will for him. She heard statements, too, that her grandmother and grandfather had retained a deep core of anger against Lúthien as well and that gave her, finally, the direction and the place she needed to go.

The people here looked to her grandparents as leaders, and it also gave her at least some of the answers she was seeking. If their leaders expressed this, if they let _him_ influence them even subtly, then it was another thing she hesitated to do, hoping that there would be too many people around when she got there, but it needed to be done. Veiling herself still, she slipped past (and part of her later came to wonder at this) a tall man dressed like a Wizard with skin of medium brown hue and long dark hair in vivid conversation with a paler red-headed man, soon reaching _that_ tent. The one she'd come to with her family when first brought here. She paused for a moment, and let her veil fall, her eyes turning to the dress and for a moment the emotions that had begun to ripple in her became a maelstrom. Lúthien had made this very gown she now wore for her, after everything, and she had let herself be clouded by... She shook her head, willing herself to be calmer, and then stepped in.

“Daeradar. Daernaneth.” She greeted them first, keeping her voice formal, and stiff, hoping her growing displeasure showed in her tone. Surely they, of all people, who had lived through the First Age, ought to know better than to let the Enemy's manipulations affect them, to turn them against a powerful ally?

Maglor was also there, alongside her grandparents, as was Thranduil, but neither of them seemed to be contradicting Celeborn and Galadriel's unfair condemnation of Lúthien. Instead, they seemed to be going along with it, from what she could pick up in their minds. However, all conversation had ceased and all four were now gazing at her, silently, an echo of when she had first come here. Then, she had cowered and wanted only to hide, or to flee. Now, her fists clenched as she prepared to give voice to her anger.

"Have you really blamed Lúthien alone for my absence all these weeks? Not assigning fault to my own problems or to the being that truly caused them?" To her relief, and it was no small one, they blanched and they all looked ashamed, Galadriel in particular casting her eyes down. Only Thranduil met her gaze and she saw the sense of relief in his gaze and made a point of nodding subtly, telling him that she was all right and she hoped that if she showed up with her armor he'd be there tomorrow.

"Lúthien did not hurt me," and her eyes and then one of her hands pointed north and for just a moment a light shown in them, bright as suns, a small portion of the power that her lineage gave her quite literally shining in her anger. " _He_ did. He is the only one to blame for it. Do not blame her for trying to talk to me, and working to let me... just..." And then for a moment Arwen was silenced and she blinked, closing her eyes, and wept silently. She realized that she could not condemn them alone for blaming Lúthien, and then a sharp spike of other emotions hit her as well. Was she being manipulated by the enemy too? Had she escaped him in body but not fully in mind? She would need to seek out Lúthien after this, to talk to her more. Part of her still wished to do anything else but she silenced it.

There was silence in that tent, and she saw Mithrandir there, either just arriving or perhaps able to appear the moment he'd sensed her presence. The silence passed and she wiped her eyes, steeling herself again to finish her thought.

"She sought to reach out to me, rather than letting me stay a prisoner of my own sorrows. Let your anger be reserved for the real Enemy, not for people who try to do what's right, even if they... do not always do the best job of it." Then, as the haze of energy within her faded, and the glow in her eyes did, she found her eyes meeting Mithrandir, seeing in his eyes that were unfathomably ancient and knowing a mixture of emotions, and a careful nod of pride from him.

No-one spoke in the wake of her outburst, although both of her grandparents were nodding: neither could fully meet her gaze. Out of nowhere, it struck like a tidal wave what she had just done, come here, alone, to face a group of her elders, and actually corrected them, to the point of raising her voice. Icy fingers ran down her spine and she found her hands trembling. Her throat swelled almost shut, and where she would have at least bid them all farewell, now, she could not. Keeping her own head bowed, letting her long blue-black hair fall around her face as a veil, she excused herself silently.

She was almost sprinting by the time she reached her own tent, and without fully meaning to, she had veiled herself from sight once again. Once inside the tent, her legs gave beneath her and she collapsed atop her bedroll, feeling exhausted and shaky, as if she had run three-score leagues without food. Unknown to her, her veil fell, and for a moment Túrin and Niënor jumped like they'd seen a ghost, while her brothers' eyes widened, if somewhat less so. They remembered this, that Arwen had always been undeniably good at going where she wanted to go, and that if she wished to, she might be in a room with them right in front of them and she would be hidden from their sight. The part of them that remembered this felt a mixture of worry and relief, that Arwen appeared to have recovered, and become stronger. They said nothing when Nienor went to sit by her, understanding after that month who Túrin and Nienor were to Arwen, and why they were that way.

Their family was larger than it had been, and it was a relief, in truth, to have siblings who understood things that others might not, and accepted things like Arwen materializing seemingly out of thin air and did nothing more than sit on the ground beside her, not even placing a hand on her, and letting her have company as she was inclined to accept.

Arwen shifted so she was laying on her side, smiling tiredly at all of her siblings, blood and chosen, and slowly offered a hand to Elladan, and one to Túrin, while Elrohir gently laid a blanket over her, and Niënor stroked her hair. She was grateful beyond words that they understood she was too weary, too drained to talk, and that she merely wished to be near them for now. She felt very different now than when she had fled, but she still preferred the warmth and comfort of her family above all else. _'Thank you,_ ' she sent to them all, drowsily, as her eyes half-closed and she slipped onto the Path of Dreams.


	9. Chapter 9

Arwen was breathing heavily as Thranduil had her repeat, yet again, a disarming maneuver with her left hand. It was her non-dominant hand, but Thranduil insisted she become proficient at fighting with both hands, considering that the thick scarring on her right hand might hamper her ability to use it in a fight. She could see his logic, but still. Using her left hand made her feel clumsy, off-balance and awkward. And she only managed to disarm him about once in every five attempts! To her pleasant surprise, as she looked to the person she'd invited to observe this as a part of her attempts to work on fixing the... mess, she did manage to execute it flawlessly, this time, and a surge of pride went through her.

That person had seen the other four times, and it spurred her to greater success, something Thranduil had noted without commentary. As he smiled at her pleasantly, he looked to Lúthien as well and then said: "You know, Elrondiel, I think that Lúthien may have done more to help us, on the whole, than to hurt us. She showed us that we left ourselves vulnerable to something we did not consider. And _you_ helped us to see that and to start to correct it."

She smiled back, a bit flushed with the compliment, and then he took his sword back.

"Now, another thing worth re-emphasizing is that sword combat is about more than the edge, or simple disarmament. One of the most effective maneuvers that the foe might not see coming," and he held his blade with a grip on the hilt that was a bit lower, the pommel more prominently display, his other hand pointing to it, "is to take this, and to literally smash it into the other person. It might hurt them or stun them, but it will grant you a breathing room." He looked to her for permission and she nodded, granting it, as he gently placed his hand on her arm, and helped her to figure out where and how to grip her blade for such a maneuver, and then spent the next hour practicing the set of motions to do it. It was much less simple than it sounded, the temptation to rely on the blade meant her first few times were off, but by the end, she was flushed with the pride of getting another new/old maneuver down.

She was dabbing perspiration from her face and taking a deep drink of water when Legolas and his friend Tauriel half-ran into the training field, in the middle of a loud conversation- or an argument, Arwen couldn't tell which, but the amount of noise, and Tauriel being almost a stranger made her shrink back, just a little. Thranduil must have seen her discomfort, for he quickly stepped between her and his son (who had not yet noticed Arwen there.) "I think this will suffice for today, we have trained for over three hours, that is long enough." He glanced from her to Lúthien. "I believe the two of you had plans for the afternoon...?"

Tauriel paused, for a moment, and then lowered the volume of her voice, getting Legolas' attention with a tug on his shoulder.

He paused in turn, nodding to Arwen. "You're looking stronger, mellon nin."

She flashed him a soft smile and nodded and mouthed 'thank you' to Tauriel, before removing her armor and turning to Lúthien. Huan was still in her tent, she believed, which was good. She was sore, and he would make quite the relaxing pillow when she got there. Placing the armor back in its sack, she turned to Lúthien, with a smile on her face. "Shall we?"

Still a bit uncertain and slightly disbelieving (and that guilt in Arwen remained strong at seeing that, and realizing how much she'd inadvertently hurt Lúthien without ever meaning to), Lúthien nodded with a small smile of her own, and both walked toward the tent.

Huan was indeed inside, lying down, though he wagged his tail once or twice as the ellith entered, whining a greeting. Arwen gave him a customary scratch behind his ears (getting an enthusiastic licking for her trouble) before sprawling against him, sighing in relief as his body heat eased her soreness.

Lúthien, slightly more given to decorum, sat down more gracefully. "I admit I was surprised when you asked to speak with me, Arwen."

She shrugged, a little uneasily. "I did some thinking while I was away, and... the anger I was taught to feel towards you... it came from him, it was what _he_ wanted. By prolonging it, I am only pleasing him, and hurting myself." She inhaled deeply. "I cannot say I _don't_ feel that anger any more, but... I know I shouldn't, and I am trying to move past it."

Lúthien smiled, softly. "I'm grateful. I never meant to hurt you."

Arwen nodded. "I know. I never meant to hurt you, either. Nor... to be a reason why others would do so."

Lúthien's smile became softer, as did her own. Neither of them quite noticed that they were not alone together in the tent until Galadriel stepped in, and gave both of them the tiniest smile, her body language clearly showing her relief at seeing the two of them together and now getting along better.

Arwen's eyes met hers and Galadriel then turned to Lúthien. Part of her felt no little amount of shame that after resisting the the power-plays of Sauron, the servant, so well, she'd fallen straight for the schemes and manipulations of his master, but that meant that these words were more important, not less. And after her granddaughter's words to her, it would mean more to have them said in front of her, than in private.

She smiled warmly at Arwen, then nodded to Lúthien, trying to ignore her trepidation: her old friend would be well within her rights to spurn her after what she had done, how she'd treated her, but she owed Lúthien this, and so she would say it. "I apologize for how I treated you during Arwen's absence, mellon nin. I feared for her, let my fear cloud my judgement and anger me, then took it out upon the nearest target. It was unjust of me. I am sorry."

Lúthien's relief was transparent to both of them, and soreness aside, Arwen got up and then gently put her hand on Lúthien's shoulder, nodding to her grandmother with a smile, mouthing words that let Galadriel breathe a bit more easily. Lúthien smiled in turn. Arwen walked a bit stiffly, feeling much more sore after the sword training than she did after chasing Tevildo or some of the other things she'd done in the woods*, not entirely sure why that was, and went and relaxed by Huan again.

As Galadriel and Lúthien shared a brief talk in ósanwe, Arwen resisted the impulse to try to listen in, instead relaxing next to her dear friend, until Galadriel got up and prepared to leave. She sat up, then, crossing her legs within her dress (another of the ones that Luthien had made for her, her ancestor had some genuine skill with sewing and she intended to tell her that at another point). "Wait!"

Galadriel paused, half-turning to look at her.

"I was going to ask Luthien about something but... I think you might be able to help me, too."

Galadriel hesitated, then turned back and let herself sit beside Lúthien, head tilted a bit, curiosity evident in her expression.

Arwen twisted her hands uneasily, wondering how to phrase this so it made sense. “You know I have nightmares, always have, ever since...” She shook her head. “But lately, I have been having one that is... rather more disquieting, like a memory almost. I started having it while Huan and I were out in the woods.” She gulped. “It's when I was still captive, and it's always the same, nearly every night. I'm kneeling on the ground, in a pool of blood, clutching my belly, and there's... mess, but it hurts too much to move. I mean, I was always in pain there, but it's different in the dream. I felt like sobbing, like I had lost something precious to me. Then he was there, shouting and roaring, beating me, the angriest he had ever been...” She shuddered. “I should wake from that dream screaming, but when I awaken, I am not afraid... I just find myself crying from that sense of loss.” She turned to her grandmother and her ancestress, eyes imploring. “Do you think it means something, or is it just another consequence of his toying with my mind?”

There was silence for a time, the strangest silence that Arwen knew. She saw expressions crossing the faces of her grandmother and Lúthien that she had no name for beyond grief and anger, saw Lúthien move her hand to her face and swallow, blinking and willing herself not to lose the meal she'd had before watching Arwen in the training ring.

That was something that drew her attention less than the name that whispered from her grandmother's mouth, as the look of sorrow and horror she wore became something... else. Her hand did what Niënor's did, sliding down to cover her belly, and in that, Arwen took her first steps to realizing just what the dreams may have been, her fists clenching, though it was just the first step, as she saw tears begin to go down her grandmother's face.

She could not see it, but Galadriel was lost in a memory of her own, as a name slid from her lips. "Amroth," and as Arwen stiffened, remembering for a moment an old story Celebrían had told her when she had asked why Daernaneth was sad sometimes in a way very little could help, and the name associated with such times.

Galadriel seemed almost to crumple, curling up much as Arwen did, and tears became sobs, and as Lúthien stared at Galadriel in shock and a new set of sorrows of her own, it was Arwen who surprised herself by making a decision she would never have expected herself to make before her time in the forest. She walked over to her grandmother and slid an arm around her shoulders, supporting her while she wept, not trying to console her with empty words: sometimes, they were no use.

Time passed, and she was not certain how long it took. For a moment Túrin and Niënor poked their heads in and she briefly saw them and made a motion with her undamaged hand and they nodded, slipping away in silence.

She understood enough of why her grandmother wept that she just remained there, Lúthien's initial paralysis at the realization fading as she went to the other side of Galadriel and just sat by her, sending comforting emotions to her, reminding her that she was safe and it was fine _to_ cry.

It was apparent more to Lúthien than to Arwen at this point, though both understood it in later years, that the grief making itself known had been hidden for a long time. Arwen suppressed a pang of guilt that her dream had awoken it, her other hand scratching her palm until it bled, the catharsis letting her relax a bit.

Finally, the tears stopped, Galadriel began taking calmer breaths, and wiping her eyes. She looked to Lúthien for a moment, and they had another quiet conversation, one that Arwen cared less about than her grandmother knowing she was there, that Arwen did not need to be told things to understand them.

It was Galadriel who met her eyes and spoke carefully. "The dream is naught but a result of his tampering with your mind, my granddaughter. That's all it was."

Arwen had a strong feeling that her grandmother was lying to her, even then, but found herself surprised that she did not feel angered, or betrayed by the lie. The sadness in her that had welled up after that dream, and even now pulsed a bit when she thought about it and thickened her throat gave her enough of a reason to just nod and act as if she accepted it.

She would work this out on her own, given time, and she had a small spike of fear in her that when she did decipher the recurring dream, she might understand all too well why her most powerful female relatives would have lied to her. That was for later. For now there was nodding and the three of them together, helping to mend old wounds. That was all there was, and it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * If you want to know what Arwen is referring to here, see this side story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184169


	10. Chapter 10

Túrin found himself wondering, in retrospect, just how easily it had come for him and for his new allies to work together. Legolas he could understand, the Elf was an archer, and _what_ an archer. His arrows moved with a speed and power to shatter even the rugged iron armor of the Great Enemy's servants. Durin IV he understood too, the dour and even vengeful Dwarf-King was lord of a mighty people sundered from their halls. But the Wizard, this... Pallando... He turned to watch Pallando kneeling with his hand on the ground, doing whatever he did to sense things. He knew the Wizards were Maiar, at least after a fashion, but what he had seen of Mithrandir led him to believe that they did not exercise their power this bluntly. The glow emanating off of Pallando was a thing visible not just to Legolas, but to him and even to Durin.

"Ah," fussed Durin softly. "Wizards and their arts. Give me a few Orc heads to sever with my axe and be done with it!"

Túrin privately agreed, but nonetheless he raised a hand to silence the dwarf. He knew enough of Maiar to know that risking offending one, even one that was an ally, was unwise. Besides, as disquieting as Pallando's display was, if it was helping them all stay alive while they patrolled for any sign of the dragon Smaug, or any other enemies, then he did not intend to protest the Wizard's methods. Legolas hummed low in his throat, his keen eyes scanning their surroundings, seeing who knew what with his elven-sight, an ability far beyond that of Mortals. Turin had no idea if the Elf meant to agree with Durin, or to protest his words: his face was unreadable.

Pallando looked to the northwest, and then stood up. "Well, master Dwarf, you'll get your wish. There's a small nest of Orcs trying to sneak through the woods in that direction. No mere Orcs, these, either. Uruks, the weapons of dear old Gorthaur when he wanted to improve on his master's work." Pallando grimaced. "About twenty of them, all told."

Durin IV grinned, then his face fell for a moment. "No Dragon?"

Pallando couldn't resist a single sharp bark of laughter. "Good King Durin, if there was one of those around you wouldn't need me to tell you. You'd smell it when it was still a few leagues away in the air."

Durin IV paused for a moment, opened his mouth, raised a pointer finger, then closed his mouth and clenched his fist. "No, no, you've got a point." His eyes turned to Turin's suit of armor. "Well, let's get to it, those Orcs won't sever their own necks!"

Without waiting for a reply, Durin hefted his axe and raced in the direction Pallando had indicated, uttering a loud guttural cry in some Dwarf-tongue that Túrin did not know. Pallando merely stood where he was, looking faintly amused. Túrin shook his head, ignoring Legolas' muttering about 'stubborness of Dwarves' and raced after Durin, already listening hard for the sounds of battle, confident that Legolas would follow. Durin was a skilled fighter, but to confront a pack of Uruks alone...

Catching up, Túrin waded into the melee without hesitation, though, upon seeing just how many Uruks there were, he made a mental note to throttle Durin later for racing in alone. For their part, the Uruks stared at first in blank surprise, a few of them even running from the screaming Dwarf.

The biggest and meanest-seeming one of the lot, blind in one eye, shouted "Oi! You fools, there are nine of you and one of him! Stop running before my sword makes you stop!" Freezing in mid-stride, several of them fell on their faces, the Uruk-chief brushing his face with his gauntlet for a moment with a rumbling sigh.

As they got up, the Uruks turned to face new threats. A Man, clad in black with a substance that they could see but not see, that hurt their eyes to look upon. The Dwarf, now more than slightly abashed at one level but wielding his axe and shouting "Come on then, ya gits! My axe has plenty for your blades!" There was also a blond Elf with a notched arrow... and him. One of the Tarks, the ginger-haired one who'd made himself an utter horror.

The chieftain muttered for a moment. "Oh sod me, facing the Fire-Haired Doom. That's all I need. In and out, said the bat-queen. In and out, get a single Elf-maiden with dusty hair and that'd be fine. _Sod me..._ " the last a despairing groan and then the Uruks turned and sought to steamroll their opponents. There were twenty of them, after all, and even with a Wizard they outnumbered their foes five to one.

Unfortunately for them, the Wizard was not the only one he underestimated. Between Túrin's swordplay, Durin's hungry axe, Legolas' keen arrows and Pallando's Power, the Uruks were dropping like flies. Their chieftain was fierce, however: much as he feared the Tark, he feared the Bat-Queen and her Master even more. He fought on even as his men were slaughtered around him. He was the last one standing, and the still-bellowing Dwarf prepared to fling his axe. Bolg stood tall: he would die on his feet, bravely! However, to his immense surprise, the black-armored Man stayed the Dwarf's hand, and, perhaps through some silent command, the blond Elf, who'd moved swift as air, now held a blade to Bolg's throat.

“You muttered that you were sent here for a reason.” The Man stated coldly. “Tell us why, and we may set you free.”

The dwarf began spluttering in indignation at that, but the Man and the Elf ignored him. The flame-haired Tark simply gestured at the Dwarf for silence. Huffing, the Dwarf obeyed, and Bolg thought quickly. Would these maggots keep their word and free him if he betrayed his mission? If they did, could he flee and remain hidden, evade punishment for his betrayal?

"I was sent to fetch a maiden for the Dark Lord." Bolg grinned. "A maiden with dusty hair. The Bat-Queen sent me, she specified that she has dusty hair and grey eyes, didn't tell me if she was maiden or Elf, just that I would know her when I see her."

Túrin snorted. Then with that, he nodded and Legolas' blade sliced before Bolg understood why darkness rose to swallow him.

Durin guffawed loudly. "So much for setting him free!" He clapped Túrin and Legolas on their shoulders. "You boys had me fooled for a minute there!"

For a time Túrin stood quietly, pondering. "Morgoth certainly is insistent on finding Arwen," he mused. "I hope he doesn't have any other clever ideas."

* * *

The irony, the Dark Lord mused, in his encounter with the strange being wrought of orange light that had given him the idea for this shape, was that it worked so surprisingly well. He wore now a face like a grinning Elf, a grin from ear to ear, ears extending further than the Elven norm, but not that much further. The 'hair' this form possessed was a bright orange, his clothes of bright silver. He stood near the edge of the woods, eyes watching and waiting. It had become clear that force of arms would not work in retrieving his little bird, and that Thuringwethil was not reliable in pursuing her distant kindred. He waited, and it was not a long wait, for he saw the child moving over, smiling to see him. How simple to gain the faith of a child, and how much power there was in so simple and so easily maneuvered a thing. He let the expression of this false form shift into a warm smile as she approached, her silver-haired head tilted to one side, curiosity plain to see on her innocent face.

"Hello." She smiled brightly, waving a greeting. It was nice to see someone who was just... there, and who was being friendly. She heard his voice, tectonic and much deeper than his form should have allowed, but to her it was a warm voice.

**“Hello, little Elleth.”**

"Hello. I'm Alassë. Would you like to be my friend?"

The strange clown-like figure knelt in front of her on one knee, whispering into her ear. **“Yes, yes I would. You do seem....lonely.”**

She beamed further, and then sat beside him, telling him about her day. She did not notice that the wind around her friend seemed to have a curious element to it, low and mocking. It was a wind that echoed of mockery and deceit.

It was all Morgoth could do to keep from roaring with laughter: this was absurdly simple! A few attempts like this, and he could whisk the child away, after which, presuming his little bird valued this sister of hers, she would come for her, once she knew of the child's danger.

"...going to live with my grandparents in a new place, with my brothers Elladan and Elrohir, and my sister Arwen. My brothers are busy fighting Orcs all the time, so I don't see them much, and I've never seen my sister before. Nana and Ada said she got trapped in somewhere real bad- uh, really bad, and she's still getting better from it now she's free."

Morgoth carefully kept his motions still, not giving away the blend of amusement, annoyance, and anger in his thoughts. Even then there was a brief rumble that made Alassë look up for a moment, startled. "Thunder?"

The clown coughed, for a moment. **“My apologies, I was scratching an itch.”**

The child laughed, and Morgoth inwardly stewed. Dismiss him so lightly, would they? His little bird would come to her sister's aid, and then he might even leave this one be. She would not run nor shift shape if she knew her precious younger sister could be... exposed... to his worst traits, and it would permit such a lovely songbird in the land of desolation he made his own.

Alassë continued to ramble about things as her clownish friend's eyes briefly, for a moment, turned a brilliant orange that her sister, had she been here, would have known all too well, though she did not look at him to see it. She heard her Nana's voice shouting her name with a wavering note of fear in it, and then she turned. Her friend the clown had seemingly vanished, only a soft voice echoing on the wind: **“I will be back soon.....friend. For now, you and I are friends alone, just the two of us.”**

Alassë nodded, giggling, putting a chubby finger to her own lips. “You can be my secret friend!” She had never had a friend before, and she was near skipping with happiness as she ran to find Nana.

Nana pulled her close, holding her tightly. Her breathing was kind of funny as she pressed her face into Alassë's hair. "You must never, _never_ run off like that, where Ada and I can't see you, do you understand? It's not safe for you to be alone!"

Nana was crying, and Alassë wondered if she should tell her about her friend, so Nana would know she hadn't been alone. But, her friend wanted to be a secret, so she kept quiet. "Sorry, Nana. I won't go off alone again."

She did not notice the way her Nana scanned the woods, puzzled. Celebrian had felt an all too familiar evil, for a moment, and thought she'd heard _him._ She looked more closely at Alassë, whose smile remained bright as ever, and took a single shuddering breath before walking back to the camp. She did not see the clown reappearing out of thin air and seeming to remove his face, displaying the rangy greasy black hair and glowing orange eyes of Morgoth. He flashed a fanged smile as his eyes were drawn to the child, and feverish plans surged through his mind. 


	11. Chapter 11

Arwen twisted her hands nervously as she and Lúthien walked through the woods, in the 'safe' area just behind the routes patrolled by guards. She had intended to have this walk be a clearing of the air between herself and her ancestress, continuing the reconciliation that had barely begun, but now this was happening in truth, she found that no words came to her mind. Lúthien seemed to have the same problem, for although Arwen had felt her eyes upon her as they walked through the weak sunlight and cool breeze of the day, neither had spoken.

“Well, this is wonderfully awkward.”

Lúthien's sudden straightforward announcement made Arwen start, and then her lips twitched in a half-smile. She was not wrong! For a moment she remained more indecisive, and then she steeled herself with her usual routine. Fists clenched, a single deep breath. A reminder that she was with someone she could trust, that so much of the animosity had been _his_ work.

"When I was... held... by _him,_ " the last word growled with a deeper, almost canine undertone, "He showed me things."

Lúthien remained quiet, an eyebrow raised.

"One of the things he loved to show me most was......was when you and Beren came before his throne. First, in the form of a great bat, and the hide of one of the werewolves."

Lúthien nodded, and spoke quietly. "Then he saw through Beren's disguise, and with that gaze of his flayed it off of him, leaving him staring straight at him in horror." She saw a slight blend of relief, anxiety, repulsion, and curiosity intertwining in a set of microexpressions on Arwen's face. Quietly, Lúthien dared to ask a question that she in truth had wanted to know since Arwen seemed to rise from the dead in that tent. "What else did he show you?"

Arwen swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat at the memories that she had been forced to watch, over and over, and what _he_ had done while the vision played out before her eyes... Rage bubbled within her once again and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to calm, repeating, again, that her rage was Morgoth's work and his will. "He... often showed me how you used... dance... to lower his guard. Your... sensuality certainly did a fine job at keeping him distracted." The last came out more bitter than she intended, but she could not help it, nor did she take it back. She continued, the bitterness taking a sharp edge of anger as _his_ laughter seared. "He showed me that your body was bare, and that you used this to entice him."

She did not see that Lúthien's eyes had widened, and then her normally pale skin reached a kind of pallor usually seen only on the dead. A sudden mute and crude anger flashed in her eyes for a moment. _That_ Arwen did register, and for just a moment honed reflexes meant she stepped back slightly raising her scarred hand before shaking her head and closing her eyes murmuring under her breath, "This is real, she is real. She is not what he showed."

Lúthien waited, patiently, moreso than she had done before everything that had happened between them, and then after Arwen calmed herself and looked into her eyes, she put her pointer fingers together, hands partially clenched. "I... I want to offer you something, if you trust me." Arwen raised an eyebrow, and her eyes widened slightly at the proposal Lúthien spoke in her silvery voice: "I want to show you what actually happened. He lied to you, out of envy and hate. If you trust me... perhaps seeing something of the truth might help weaken those lies."

For a moment of indecision that stretched on seemingly for hours but was a quarter-hour at most, Arwen was silent, and then slowly, glacially, she let herself nod, not missing Lúthien's audible sigh of relief and anticipation.

Moving slowly, as one would who did not wish to frighten a timid deer, Lúthien reached her hands towards Arwen's temples, fingertips just barely brushing her skin. "Are you ready?"

Another long pause as Arwen thought, swallowed hard, and then nodded. She had already seen this scene, many times, from Morgoth's perspective. If Lúthien's version of events differed, she needed to know how, and why. Just how much had Morgoth twisted and lied to her about to suit his own ends?  
The first part, where Beren and Lúthien arrived, was consistent, at least. That was truth.

 _Lúthien_ _had arrived not quite garbed as Thuringwethil, who was more by far than a mere oversized bat. She was clad in the shape of something Man-sized, dark as night, with eyes like pools of blood that burned like suns, and fangs that slavered and clicked against each other. Beren moved in the form of a Werewolf, much more than a warg. As the name showed, there were horrible elements akin to Elves or Men in their shape, in the way the forepaws were more like hands than true paws of the Warg or the Wolf. The face was like a twisted mixture of Man and Beast, though the eyes were Beren's eyes. Morgoth saw them, and she saw what Lúthien saw when she saw him. A towering mountainous thing whose solidity was most around his face where a terrible crown gleamed with bloody trophies 'won' from Formenos of old, in Valinor. A being who could be seen only partially, like a great Nothingness that was empty but forever voracious. He looked at them and then he smiled and leaned down. The power of his gaze suddenly seemed to lance out with a flash of hellish light and Lúthien stood before them, clad in the most beautiful dress Arwen had ever seen. Veins of what seemed like Mithril coated parts of it, the parts that one seeking to slake lust would see most, while otherwise it seemed to be near translucent. She stood petrified with fear and Beren gazed in mute horror at the monster whose eyes fixed straight into his own._

 _“_ _**So** _ _,” the monster spoke. “_ _**The son of Barahir and the daughter of Melian the Shadow-Queen here in my court. I do not welcome thieves or burglars in mine own halls. Nor do I welcome the vagabonds of fallen kingdoms.”** _

_Lúthien stood, proudly, though Arwen was amazed to see just how petrified her ancestress was. It mirrored her own gestures in part, but she came to understand that repeated exposure to the withered thing the monster had become had to a degree dulled the fear, where for Lúthien this was her first and only encounter. Yet her voice was a calm and clear one that rang like a bell._

_“Melkor, the Mighty-Arising, I have come to gaze upon your splendor. It is said you were the greatest of all the Ainur, and so I sought to see if there is truth to those tales.”_

_“ **And is there?”**_ _The monster said with a note of amusement in its voice. “Yes. And in return for that beauty that you have shown me, I offer you a gift, to dance for you, to give you something you shall see and that shall endure for all time.”_

 _And then his face took on a shape and an intent that Arwen grasped immediately and she saw that Lúthien's jaw tightened and her fists clenched, before she first began to sing with a song of surpassing loveliness, something that made Arwen start. The song she'd heard was a glimpse of truth that no lie of Morgoth could erase, something time and worse than time could not destroy, but it had been weakened, diluted. In its fullness it was a note of such loveliness that she knew nothing she could do with her own voice could surpass this, nor could anything in Arda known. Down like rain her voice flowed and she began to see Lúthien moving, and the silver's purpose became clear. It drew the eye and cast a note of drowsiness, slowly and willingly lulling the court of Angband, save Beren, into the path of Dream_ _s._ _For just a moment she caught a glimpse of what Beren saw in his eyes, a swift mirror, and then her eyes met the dream-Lúthien's in greater understanding. What her husband-to-be saw was not the same as the rest, an enchantment of such skill that it fit one who had escaped a prison by transforming her hair into a flowing river and then a rope of iron. The dance was hauntingly beautiful, not the debased mating-imitation she had been shown but graceful motions, twirls and even leaps, motions that worked in perfect unity to the great Song, as hellfires dimmed and Angband began to enter its torpor._

_As she saw it, Arwen knew at once how Lúthien's deeds had become legend, and why. And in this dance, and the way Morgoth's motions began to slow and his visions to become more shadowy, she realized her ancestor's cunning. Rather than seeking to face the monster as he would have preferred, brute strength and a trial thereof, she used song and dance, a thing of shadows and of thought, to outmaneuver him in a way nothing else could. Arwen let herself smile, watching this, and even nodded approvingly, something of her own shadows lessening as she saw Beren's raptness and content and even slightly smug smile and that as the last of the beasts of Angband slipped onto the path, Morgoth clutched his hands, making a drowsy motion._

_Slowly, ever so slowly, the colossus that Lúthien had seen as a shadowy thing of Nothingness and ever-hunger consolidated into a hulking monster that was far larger than what Arwen had seen in her own prison, a giant whose drowsiness echoed in a sonorous groaning. Then the giant's eyes closed and she watched him topple, falling from his throne, and clapped her hands with glee at the sickening crunch of his head upon the floor, the crown falling from his head and landing at the feet of Beren-not-yet-Erchamion._

The vision faded, leaving Arwen standing facing Lúthien, the tension between them palpable. Arwen found that her hands were shaking, tears stinging her eyes. “That... that is not what I was led to believe happened. I... I have wronged you, kinswoman.” Her shoulders slumped as she realized just how true that was. She could not now even bring herself to meet Lúthien's gaze. There had been no artifice in that vision, she knew, nor was there any to be sensed from Lúthien now. Which meant that the false vision Morgoth had used for so long, to torment her, was all a lie. Her blood boiled. Angry, for so long, at someone who had not, in truth, done anything wrong! She failed to notice that Lúthien for her own part had caught just a glimpse of what she had seen, the false vision wrought by Morgoth flashing in the wake of that anger.

Lúthien's face turned pale again and she heard the taunting lower rasp of the vampire's voice echoing in her mind, Thuringwethil's words from over a year ago: "If you wish to blame someone for what Lord Morgoth did to the Elleth, blame her for inciting his lust in the first place!"

Her moment of triumph, when she had brought the self-proclaimed Dark Lord down, had become _that_ and in seeing it, and what Arwen had seen and grown up seeing...

Lúthien slumped further, finding herself on her knees, shuddering. The vampire was right, after a fashion. The most effective lies had that core of truth in them. And Arwen's anger that surged meant that there was still a truth in it. She had failed to sense that Arwen's anger had faded when she'd seen Lúthien's reaction, and then the younger elleth had had a single mute flash of dismay and horror at what she had unintentionally shown Lúthien, a brief glimpse of the same vision that had entrapped her.

She did not see Arwen's mute reaction transforming to one of sorrow and understanding, nor that Arwen's hands reached out cautiously. Her left, the unscarred one, reached Lúthien's shoulder with a gentle touch. Lúthien slowly looked up, the devastation in her face enough to break even the cold heart of Mandos himself. "I am so sorry." Her words came out choked. "Even if I am not to blame... Thuringwethil was right about one thing. I set this in motion, so long ago. I should never have..."

"No." Arwen's voice was now firm and strong. "Thoughts like this are exactly what Morgoth wants. You mustn't..." Arwen knew well what it was to cry from a thing that she had not imagined, nor done, and from a lie that was believable. She knew that emotion all too well from the bitterness of her captivity, and as Lúthien let herself feel it, she in turn knelt beside her and looked to Lúthien, who gave her a single nod, before reaching out to hug her ancestress tightly, and then the hug was returned.

For a time they remained like this, exorcising old ghosts in the warmth of tears and in not having to hide them, nor the things and the emotions that called them. When Arwen let her go and Lúthien, likewise, she sat back for a moment, biting her nail in indecision. Then with a soft smile she leaned forward. "You know, some of the ways you danced in that vision were.....they were wondrous. I...." she paused for a moment. "I want to try to learn some of them. The way you twirled, and that kick."

Lúthien dried her eyes and then returned Arwen's smile. "Well, it will take practice as much as the sword and might feel just as tiring."

Arwen laughed softly. "I would like that either way."

Lúthien stood, slowly. “We can begin now, if you like. This clearing is large enough, and as we're alone...” Her tone was tentative, as if she expected Arwen to refuse.

Arwen, however, smiled. “Thank you. Where do we begin?”

Over an hour later, Arwen's thoughts drifted amidst attempts to learn the motion and her mind began sorting through the memories of her captivity, as it had taken to doing of late, almost against her will, and she was never sure if that was a blessing or a curse. The memory of the bleeding and that loss... it had been real, for it felt like what Lúthien had shown her in the vision. She stifled the sorrow to let herself feel the joy, and knew that there was a warning here. Not all the sorrows she had seen were the work of cunning illusions and there was something here that lurked at the edges of her mind. That would wait. For now there was trying not to fall on her face and get another nose full of dirt while trying to kick without misjudging her angle and the position of her other leg.


	12. Chapter 12

Arwen steeled herself again. It was... challenging... to face things but what she had seen yesterday was, in the event, its own incentive to bring herself to do this. Morgoth had lied to her about what her ancestor had done and how she had done it. Her brothers had told her of what happened when Rivendell fell, but she only had the garbled memories of what Morgoth preferred to see. If she could trust an ancestor she'd feared and loathed due to Morgoth to show her the truth, it would come that much easier to do so with Elladan and Elrohir. She arrived at their tent and a soft smile passed her lips at Niënor stepping out, and she willingly hid herself from her chosen-sister's sight. This would be awkward enough without having to have that conversation before Nienor was ready. Taking a deep breath, she opened the tent and stepped into it. Elladan was red-faced, and seemed to be shoving Elrohir away as the younger twin nudged at his shoulder, laughing about some matter or other. Arwen hung back, not yet dropping her veil, not wishing to interrupt their banter.

"Just stop it, will you?" Elladan eventually mumbled, his cheeks going an even deeper shade of crimson. "Whatever is going on between Niënor and I is my business. Have you nothing better to do than tease me, muindor?" Arwen smiled at the simple joy they were sharing. She waited a few more minutes, gathered herself, and then dropped her veil. Her brothers turned to her, and if Elladan was a bit more relieved than Elrohir to have a bit of a distraction, both his brother and his sister studiously ignored it.

"I....I want to ask you something," Arwen said a bit timidly, as their eyes both turned to her and the levity changed abruptly into something more serious.

The twins exchanged looks, and both sat down, making sure to leave room for her to sit, either before them or between them, whatever she wished. "Of course, muinthel. What is it?" Elrohir was, as ever, the more soft-spoken of the two.

She sat down, twisting her hands, unsure where to begin. "I... you know that my memories of my life before my captivity are... sparse, and because they have been twisted, I cannot trust them fully." She took a deep breath. "I spoke with Lúthien earlier, and she was able to... correct one of Morgoth's illusions by showing me her recollection of an event. I was wondering, if you both were willing, if something similar might be done for us..." She looked up, staring straight into their clear silver-gray eyes. Eyes that had once been hers, before her... experiences darkened them to stormy gray, forever. "I need to know- to see- what truly happened when Rivendell fell."

For a moment they remained silent, and looked at each other. "We won't be able to show you everything, only what we saw. And the last things we saw."

She nodded. "I understand. All the same...."

They looked at each other again and a moment of silence fell, before nodding. Instead of placing their hands on her head, as Lúthien had done, they placed theirs on their shoulders as she closed her eyes and they did likewise, and there was that sense of strangeness that followed when the past seemed to spring into life anew.

Arwen couldn't keep from letting a cry of shock, and of grief, from escaping her lips as she saw, for the first time in far too long, her old home in blessed, long-destroyed Rivendell. Of course, a battle raged in the twins' memory but still the Last Homely House and the other dwellings stood. How long after this had they fallen? Had the valley been burned, the earth salted by the Enemy's forces, utterly destroying the place she had loved so well?

Elladan, in the memory, stood back-to-back with Erestor, fighting off an endless tide of Orcs and Wargs. Elrohir was hewing his way towards them when the first burning projectile was flung, igniting the trees: Arwen, for all this was but a memory, could hear their cries of pain.

In Morgoth's visions it was Thuringwethil that led the armies, yet it was not she whom she saw, nor whom she heard. There was an aura of menace much greater, a force that burned beyond the projectiles, a great shadowy being with wings lit in a hellish fire. She mouthed the word that her father had taught her in Quenya, "Valaraukar."

The creature roared and pointed with its axe and more projectiles set further light to the trees as her brothers stared in mute dismay. Daeradar Maglor showed up then, shouting to them "Run! It's shown itself. You cannot hope to fight it and live!"

Elladan shook his head vehemently. "We need to find Arwen! We won't leave without her!"

Arwen, watching the memory play out, stared in mute shock, a tear streaking her face in the vision and in her true form, as the horns of Orcs rang with what sounded as a furious peal in triumph. Then she heard screams and saw the army of Elves that had been roused now being driven back in disorder, by vast things that were greater in bulk than ordinary trolls snarling in Black Speech and wielding great clubs with impunity.

She watched her father leading these forces, and the Last Homely House seeming to mourn for the impending departure of its lord... and then she stared in a sudden glimpse of shock and fear as she saw herself, as she was before everything had gone so terribly wrong, hiding and watching in utter fear, paralyzed at the sight and the sounds and the smells of true battle. Elladan saw her then, and he prepared to call to her as his hands moved to beckon when a thing fell from the sky with a triumphant howl in guttural Valarin, a thing of shadows and fire and fury whose Malice was nearly as potent as its master's.

A small cloud of smoke and shards of stone ripped out and some of them, she winced to see, cut her face and shoulders and she winced with sympathetic pain. The creature that landed was gigantic and monstrous, twice the size of a grown bear, and it looked at her brothers with a savage grin that displayed cruel fangs.

Her past-self cowered, unable to take her eyes from her beloved brothers, and the Balrog now menacing them. The Arwen that was only witnessing this wanted to scoff at that: had she truly been so naive? What good was hiding? Why had she not attempted to help her brothers? A wrathful shout came from... somewhere and a tall golden-haired Ellon leaped between the twins and the Valaraukar, brandishing his longsword, facing the demon with no fear.

Glorfindel, the present-time Arwen remembered suddenly. He had been one of her father's most skilled warriors, and he was a Reborn elf who'd perished long ago in Gondolin, in slaying one of the very creatures that stood before him now.

She did not see the outcome of that battle, though, for Maglor was now hauling the twins away to somewhere safer, to join the retreat of the army, and, with a feeling of revelation, the Arwen who merely watched this memory understood: Maglor had not known she was there, and he was not listening to Elladan's protests or struggles to return, too intent on getting his adoptive grandsons to safety. All three were out of sight of her past self's hiding place in minutes.

She had expected that the vision would stop, then, but then she saw the clarity resume, as Elladan, at least, had managed to escape their grandfather's protective reach, trying to reach her. Her past self heard him and then steeled herself much like she would nowadays, preparing to make a run for it. Glorfindel yelled in agony, though that meant less to Elladan than otherw- Arwen blinked as something else changed, the perspective of the memory. She was not seeing through Elladan's eyes, she realized with mute surprise, but her own.

An immense giant of shadowy fire and smoke raised an axe with triumphant laughter, displaying a sudden and cruel command of Sindarin speech, though its voice was unnaturally deep and raspy.

**“No heroism for you this time, Glorfindel of Gondolin!”**

Then her father arrived, standing between the Balrog and his son. "Get thee gone from my gates, servant of Morgoth!"

The creature laughed loudly and crudely. **“Ah, the half-blood. Come here to lecture his betters. You are a master of books, boy. Let this be a lesson to you!”** The creature pulled out a terrible whip like fire and she saw through the terrified eyes of her past self that the whip lanced out, and aimed straight for her brother's head as her father moved, taking its brunt across his chest and shoulders and screaming in pain. The Balrog laughed, long and cold and cruel, and let them go with contempt.

Arwen became aware that her physical self was hyperventilating in fear, but she couldn't calm down. How had she forgotten this? How badly was her father injured? He lived, she knew, but she had asked nothing else... The Balrog returned to Glorfindel, who, by pure chance, had leaped directly in front of her past self's hiding place, trying to lure the demon away, as Elladan, stricken, looked helplessly towards where she was, his eyes wide with terror, then turned to their father, who was struggling to get back to his feet. The Balrog raised its whip and struck: Glorfindel sprang aside in the nick of time, and the fiery whip struck the stone edifice beneath which her younger self was hidden.

She watched her past self scramble backwards, just in time, as the now burning stone collapsed, just barely avoiding entombing her to burn alive. The Evenstar pendant she had always worn, and now wore again was torn from her neck in her mad scramble for escape (she touched it in the real world, in the tent, to ensure it was still there). In her fear she screamed, and then the Balrog stopped, and turned around.

Elrond was hurt and Maglor was determined to preserve the lives of everyone he could, so he made the hard decision to drag Elladan back, even as she heard her brother screaming "No, she's there, please, please let me find her!"

Maglor had missed her, though her brothers did not. Her father was wounded, Glorfindel had lost an arm, and the Balrog had turned to see her and smiled with a terrible leer. She began to run as the creature laughed and raised his axe, and right as Glorfindel leaped toward him he moved the axe to one hand and smashed his fist into the ellon, leaving a horrible burn and a sickening cracking sound as Glorfindel fell bonelessly and her past self stared in horror.

Elladan and Elrohir and her family receded and there was only the monster that moved toward her.

 **“Now aren't you interesting,”** he mused. **“A little mock-Lúthien, called out of the past. My master would find you very interesting indeed. And so would the vampire-queen.”** His words ended as he smiled with that inhuman grin like a shark's, and then he spoke a terrible word and her body locked in place, screaming internally, as the Balrog spoke another such word to prevent her flesh from being marred... too much, and used his whip to hold her as he suddenly took off and flew toward the north.

Horrified- she had been so certain, so convinced, that it had been Thuringwethil who had snatched her from her home!- Arwen recoiled, stepping out of her brothers' reach, rousing herself from the vision, though the sounds of battle, and her brothers' cries, still echoed in her mind. "No more. Please. Not now. I cannot..." She pressed shaking hands to her face, trembling from head to foot. Adar, Glorfindel... they'd been so badly hurt! And her suffering that had followed, all of it, had been caused by one random chance, nothing more: Maglor had not seen her, had been too focused on her father and brothers. If only one more thing had changed... The vision faded to silence and she looked to her brothers mutely, her mouth gaping a little with tears flowing freely, and then suddenly hugged Elladan with the fiercest hug she'd ever given him, even in that past. She whispered in his ear "You were so brave," and he looked at her with a sense of bemusement, sorrow in his gaze.

"I didn't save you."

"You faced down what was hopefully the last Balrog in Middle Earth to try to save me. If I had just..."

Elladan gave her a sad smile. "That's why we spent so much time trying to find you. We knew you were there, if someone _could_ find you. I... I think, a lot, about that day. I wish I'd been faster, that I was able to tell Ada, or Daeradar Maglor." For a moment the tent opened, and they turned with a bit of worry, relaxing only when they saw Maglor stepping in.

"I...." he paused. "I sensed something of your emotions. He glanced between the three of them, his brow furrowed. "All three of you are troubled. Is all well between you?" He saw the looks and their minds were raw and unguarded and then he saw the memory of _that_ day and a thing he'd puzzled over, ever since that day suddenly made a horrifying amount of sense as he turned pale, wept for a moment and wiped his eyes, and then chose his words carefully. "I understand, now, what it was that Elladan was trying to do that day. I'd been wondering, you see," he said with a soft bittersweet smile, "Why an Ellon who though prone to pranks was never foolhardy would have risked _that_ monster in spite of everything I tried to do to stop him. And then I realized that." He looked to the skies. "Iluvatar works in mysterious ways. Your family has always loved you, Arwen Elrondiel, no matter what happened to you, no matter what horrors were unleashed and what you survived to find your way back to us. You are one of us, and you will always be."

Arwen wept again, tears of bittersweet joy, and as she moved her scarred hand to her face she felt something like a sound of tearing or something crumbling into ashes and suddenly she remembered _everything_. There was a faint sound in the wind like a howling shriek of anger and denial but a cold wind from the West silenced it with a sound like an eagle's shriek and then there was silence, for a moment, in the tent as her family looked at her in initial confusion. Had they not heard the cries she had, from the North and from the West? She should ask, perhaps, but the chaotic rush of joyful memories, of her parents, her home, her family, simply being _loved_ and _safe_ were flooding her mind, and she was relishing reliving each and every one, vowing silently to never lose a single memory, ever again.

It was almost overwhelming, to have the years of her captivity, and the seven years or so since, that had for so long comprised almost all of her memory, now shrink to a mere portion of it, worth far less when held to the sum of her intact, undamaged past.

She seemed catatonic, and her brothers stared at her in mute dismay and worry, clenching their fists. If they had seen that Maglor gave her a much more searching look and cautiously reached to see the most superficial elements of her mind and then slumped in relief, slightly, before his bittersweet smile became cautiously and then more fully warm, they would have been relieved. They waited for what was in truth just over a quarter-hour for the catatonia to lapse, indecisive and their own memories of the old sorrows there, until Arwen suddenly moved (and they jumped) and spoke in a thick voice: “Did Adar and Naneth ever find out about the Numenorean vase you two smashed while practicing spear-fighting in the library?” She let out a laugh more genuine than they had heard since their reunion. “I got so many bribes from you both to keep your secret until Daerada Maglor found out and made me stop blackmailing you. He said I was just like Daernana when she was an elfling in Valinor- didn't you?” This last was addressed to Maglor, with a soft chuckle.

Elladan and Elrohir, and Maglor, stared at her with dawning comprehension and hope growing in their eyes.

“Arwen?” Elladan finally whispered, his voice breaking. She nodded, confirming their unspoken hope.

"I remember. I remember you. Them. Ada and Nana. Daerada Maglor. Daerada and Daernaneth. I remember everything." She hugged Elrohir and Elladan, and then Daeradar Maglor, laughing a bit, the sound rusty and unfamiliar and leavened with the good and warm tears flowing down her face. "I remember!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text in italic is telepathic or 'osanwe' speech. Bold text is used for Morgoth's voice.

Alassë was giggling to herself as she sat in the tent. Her parents, and the others, were talking outside as night fell, and she was meant to have been going to sleep, but her secret friend had whispered to her to stay awake, because he wanted to tell her a story. She was really excited- she loved hearing new stories!

When her friend appeared in a ripple of silver, his strange colored hair looking darker than its orange shade in the tent's dim light, she almost squealed with excitement, clapping her hands to her mouth when he gestured her to silence. “Sorry!” She whispered, hoping he would not be annoyed that she had nearly given away their secret and leave- he'd promised that this story would be amazing, and she really wanted to hear it!

Morgoth grinned and then began his tale with an expression of derision that would only become funnier, in retrospect, if she knew anything of the lore of her people as the Elves told it.

**_'_ _In the beginning the Allfather began to create the Heavens and the Earth. Now the Earth was without form and void, and darkness hovered over the surface of the Deeps. The Allfather made his mighty choir, his Ainur, to shape the world and his vision and he had to him as well a Secret Fire that could burn and in its heat shape the world. The Allfather had a first son, Belkoroz the Mighty-Arising, to whom he had given the most gifts. Belkoroz was the greatest of all his siblings in everything, he had a share in all their gifts. He knew the Wind-King's airs, the Ocean-Lord's waters, he knew all the secret arts of Dream and Sleep and Healing and Death. He was great and he was a shining entity, the bringer of light, of wisdom, and of understanding. But Belkoroz's siblings were jealous of his skills and of his wonder, and so they went to their father in that bitterness, and in that desperation. They began to sow and to incite hatred against him, claiming that Belkoroz was disloyal, that his quest for a Secret Fire of his own made him unreliable and not the most loyal of them all._ _They did this as the Choir that began to make the world began to sing, but Belkoroz was above the sneers and jeers of his siblings. The Sublime one with light that was as the very stars themselves had desired him then and then rejected him when the lies of his jealous sibling of the winds ensnared her and drew her away. In that first chorus she had sung with him, and they had been in harmony. In the second the Wind-Lord chose to draw her to him, and in that moment a brother's heart broke, and a new desire came. A music as their father would wish._**

Alassë sat, spellbound, as her friend's words wove a picture that moved before her eyes. Her mouth hung open in awe. She did not understand all his words, but the pictures helped her to understand: Belkoroz had been hurt by his family, and tried to find a new way to please his father. The thought made her eyes sting with tears. “Belkoroz's Ada should have listened to him.” she said with a child's frankness, not seeing the cruel humor in her friend's eyes.

He smiled, a smile that she saw as much friendly than it was. **“Yes, he should have**.” He shrugged and then continued:

**_'_ _So came a second music, one beautiful and splendid and in the eyes of Belkoroz the vision of his father made fullest. Yet his brother in his anger marred that music and twisted it, and thus the second music ended in a discord. Then the third came and this time Belkoroz sought to make his father proudest, to show him that he was worthy of the process of creating all things and to have a Fire of his very own.'_ **

Her silver-robed friend paused for a moment, a look of sorrow dimming his face.

 **' _Yet his father did not understand what Belkoroz unleashed, and so he rose, and spoke cruel words, and demanded that Belkoroz remain the servant of his jealous and angry family, heart broken, and required to have his dream in the hands of those unable to wield it. His father showed him and all the Ainur that the vision that they had sung would be shaped by great hands, and he said 'Behold your minstrelsy! This is your vision, go forth and create it!'_ **He smiled, then. ** _'And so they did.'_**

Alassë was almost clapping with glee to hear that. "And Belkoroz was happy in the end, wasn't he? He deserves for something good to happen, after all."

Her friend's face turned sad. **"Not yet, I fear, little silver one. But perhaps someday soon, he will be."** His brow furrowed as he regarded her. **"You could help with that, if you wished, help to ensure that things go as he wishes, for once."**

Alassë's eyes widened with amazement. Her, help such a mighty being as Belkoroz? "How?" She whispered, scarcely able to believe it.

Her friend's eyes shone. **"I will tell you, soon. Let me finish my story first, little silver one."**

Alassë nodded seriously and piped down, waiting for him to continue, eager to hear more.

**_'Belkoroz saw his family's works and he was delighted, and he came to join them. Their work was a thing of perfection and thus a thing of boredom and of failure What is perfect will forever stagnate. Belkoroz brought light and heat and brought chaos. Mountains they raised and he leveled, valleys they lowered and he raised. He shaped things to a vision greater than what they would have done and then he left, assured that his family would be grateful.'_ **

"And then," Alassë asked, curiously, "what happened?"

 **"He returned, to see that his gifts he had given his family had been rejected, and for the first time, Belkoroz was angry."** Her friend smiled and Alassë suddenly saw that the vision changed and she did not know why it had, or why what she saw made her afraid but it did.

_'_ **_He came among them as a friend, and he descended as a giant, clad in ice and crowned in fire, with eyes that glowed like stars. In fear and envy his family fled, but those of their friends who were most loyal came to him, one in three of their ranks. They made him angry, and envious, and in that they remembered why one never makes a good friend angry, for in that wrath they can make worlds burn.'_ **

Alassë trembled, for in telling that tale for a moment, her friend too had changed as his eyes seemed to take on a nostalgic element. She had seen a monster of terrible form fall from the sky, and for just a moment her 'friend' seemed to be something dark and monstrous, with orange eyes that shone like a dying Sun. She heard a faint whimpering sound and only realized it came from her when her friend turned to look at her, his expression faintly amused _._

**"What's wrong, little silver?”**

“I don't like this story...” She found herself on her feet, backing away. Her friend looked hurt, but something in his eyes was... off.

 **“You're leaving? But I thought you wanted to help Belkoroz find a way to be happy?”** Now he was looming over her, somehow a good deal taller than he had been, and the smile on his face had far too many teeth. **“And I promise you, you will. For you are going to help him- me- to reclaim what is mine!”** Hands closed around her, too-hot and too-cold at the same time, and she did not even have time to scream before she was engulfed in blackness.

* * *

Arwen and Lúthien had gone into the woods on one of their first patrols. The enemy's activities had begun to escalate lately, and there was now a greater necessity for more people to take up arms. Arwen's decision to do so had led to great nervousness from everyone involved except perhaps herself and Lúthien, yet after her first encounter when she'd been assigned to work with Túrin and his companions and killed five Orcs with personal skill, albeit in some ways a bit much fervor even for Túrin, the protesting voices were silent. Arwen had insisted, in this case, that Lúthien come with her because they had wanted to talk more about things between them, for there was still much tension.

Not about the bad dream, which Arwen was starting to realize was not a dream, but a memory. That cast its own shadow and added to the ferocity of her fighting, but it was not yet something she could voice. This? This was her seeking to see more of the woman whose song and dance had brought Morgoth down and to let herself bond with her in a new way. Beren and Huan were near them, she knew, but not too near, for it was unwise for them to be entirely alone. Yet here they were, walking the woods, speaking in Ósanwe and Arwen in turn moving with a stealth that made Lúthien feel like an Oliphaunt knocking down a forest in the wake of its passage.

She stared at her descendant, who could have been her twin but for the anguish forever showing in her features and the shade of her hair, shaking her head. _'How do you move with such silence?_ '

' _My brothers taught me_.' Arwen sent back, a smile tugging at her lips, for she still felt joy each time she let one of her restored memories cross her mind. She had been empty, hollow, for so long, it sometimes felt as if she might burst at the new wholeness of herself. For her own part, Arwen could not believe how little skill her famed ancestress had at moving stealthily, although she resisted the urge to tease her about it- they were not yet that comfortable with one another.

Lúthien stopped walking abruptly, her foot coming down loudly on a twig, which snapped. Arwen now could not hold back a snort of laughter, but Lúthien stood stock-still, not responding. An instant later, Arwen realized why, sensing the foul blemish encroaching on her senses, not far to the North-west, and she closed her eyes, willing her Sight to bear her hence. Her hand slid into Lúthien's, combining their strength and anchoring them to their physical forms as they searched for the threat they both felt.

* * *

Azog the Defiler looked back at his compatriots. He had sent about ten Orcs, most of them Uruks of Mordor, stout and bulky things that were meant for slaughter on a grand scale, to target the Man and the Hound. As big a dog as it was, dogs died. That one, with the terrible seeming awareness in its eyes would not die swiftly or cleanly. For now, there was a long-awaited reckoning. The little bitch he was sent to retrieve had ripped off his arm in a different form than the one she wore now, that had horrified him when he saw it, and after her escaping him he had a feeling Lord Morgoth would forgive him a little roughness and even a wee bit of....fun...at her expense.

Dark thoughts passed through his mind as he moved closer and then his eyes, which saw as keen as the forgotten Orcs of the first age, among which had been his great-grandfather, saw two pulses of ethereal light.

"Got you," he snarled, and then he stooped, taking from his boot a thing he'd kept for the pleasant and painful sensation of it when he walked. It was a thick rock from his master's fortress, just perfect to serve as a knuckleduster. He turned to the one on the left, the taller one with the purely dark hair and snorted. Too pretty this one, no sense of woodcraft whatsoever. He hadn't been asked to retrieve _her_ , so perhaps he'd have some fun with her before he killed her? The thought made him grin as he took aim, and flung the projectile with deadly accuracy. He blinked when the stripe-haired Elf-maiden seemed to become invisible, even as she stood there. He shrugged. Ah, well. Evidently Elves could literally fade like nothing into the woods, he wasn't afraid of something whose first impulse was to hide.

Leaning down, he pulled out a rope and started to tie it around the feet, first, of the now unconscious Elf-woman. He knew enough of the various stories of Orc lore to know he was handling Lúthien Tinúviel herself, resurrected by some improbable and accursed thing, and as he'd tied her ankles, he could not resist the impulse to start having his hand wandering up toward a place he hoped she'd awaken to feel an Orc's hand there when it was there.

* * *

Arwen watched, first appalled, and then seeing the Orc's hand moving and where the monster intended to put it, she snarled with a sudden wrath and protectiveness that surprised her. Maybe this was a thing Morgoth had done to her too, or maybe this was her experiencing a kind of love for Lúthien and a desire to spare someone else what she had known, but either way, she had to act. She drew her blade and moved, quietly.

* * *

Lúthien awoke more swiftly than most would have done, her Ainu-heritage meaning she healed more swiftly than most. Her vision was clouded and doubled, as no amount of sudden shock and horror at the feeling of wandering hands creeping up her shin and then her thigh toward... toward... She couldn't resist a sudden sharp whimper of fear and then Azog froze.

"What the fu-" was all she heard before a sudden sharp sound followed and then a horrid strangled curse from the Orc followed in turn, as it slumped to the ground near her, its throat nearly torn out by a blade and Arwen appearing seemingly out of thin air again, looking at her with a mixture of anger and worry. She wiped the blade off on the Orc's own armor and then knelt, carefully cutting the ropes that bound her feet. The look in Arwen's eyes chilled something deep within Lúthien, for it was cold, hard and sharp as the blade she carried. The look of a hunter.

“Are you alright?” Arwen's voice, at least, sounded normal, although the harsh look did not fade from her.

Lúthien got to her feet, nodding shakily, as horror at the Orc's actions filled her. Straightening her clothing and dusting herself off, she wished she could wipe away its filthy touch as simply as that- she froze, abruptly, realizing that as sickened and violated as she now felt, the Orc hadn't had time to actually do anything, thanks to Arwen. How much worse must it have been for Arwen, enduring worse, for so long, at the hands of the Orcs' master? For the first time, the true weight of it hit her and she looked at Arwen with new eyes, with grief anew- and the greatest respect.

Even if Arwen now was using a dagger, perhaps more slowly than was needed, to slowly remove the Orc's head, a look of fierce exultation on her face, as black blood spurted over her. She grinned when it was done, and then held it up and spoke a single sentence that chilled Lúthien a bit more.

"You won't get her the way your master did me, Azog. They say a head can live for a while when cut off. I hope the last thing you see and hear is my telling you I... will... never... be... his... again!" Arwen tossed the head towards the North in a motion that could only be called defiant, and then the moment passed and she looked at the dead Orc with an odder expression, something akin to sympathy, and slumped to her knees. The moment dragged, and then she suddenly looked up. She blinked a few times, as if waking from some dream, then bolted to her feet, suddenly looking alarmed. "How did he get so close to us without Beren or Huan warning us?!"

Lúthien paled- that somehow had not occurred to her! Immediately, she reached for the marriage-bond between herself and Beren, and, without even waiting for Arwen, tore through the woods to where she had sensed him.

Arwen followed, delaying only a few seconds to veil herself lest they risk a repeat of what had happened (and part of her flared with still greater anger that Azog had dared to touch Lúthien at all, not that the self-proclaimed Defiler would be defiling anything, anymore). She froze and almost ran into Lúthien when she paused, and didn't quite hear her sigh of relief, before turning to look into the woods.

There sat Beren on a fallen log, the bodies of dead Orcs ringing himself and Huan, who had miraculously seemed to escape injury (either that or like Lúthien's wound that was even now shrinking on her head, he could heal whatever injuries he had had swiftly enough too-) Arwen couldn't resist a sharp sound of worry at the sight of a single streak of blood on Huan's back and then rushed to the dog as Lúthien moved to her husband.

For his own part Beren just looked at her and gave her a bit of a smirk, trying to soothe his clearly unsettled wife. "What took you so long? You almost missed all the fun."

Arwen then froze for a moment when none of the rest of them were focused on her, right then, as she sensed...

Her gaze suddenly turned north in a sudden instance of her face turning pale and only Huan saw what happened next.

It seemed that reality rippled around her like a stone cast on water, and Arwen seemed to vanish within the ripples as if she had never been standing by him at all. He let out a whine as the two-leggeds gasped and turned to his mistress with worried eyes, his question clear: where was Arwen? Unfortunately, even Lúthien had no explanation for her disappearance.


	14. Chapter 14

Morgoth grinned within the sphere of darkness he'd created, the child now no longer seeing the 'friend' she'd come to believe in, she was now aware of the kind of monster she was entrapped in here with. It was always a delicious thing to see the fear and the tears of children, and still moreso given that it was a rare case where he did not intend to do actual direct harm to this one. His little bird had run away from him once. Now, when he retook her, she'd have her little sister in a gilded cage as hostage for her good behavior.

He had drawn the child to him and he waited, convinced that his scheme was working exactly as intended. A single instance of disquiet took him when his scheme's success began to bear fruit. It began with a sudden rippling in the midst of his darkness like water skipping across a stone, and from that there emerged a set of brilliant shafts of light that led him to groan in pain and place his hand in front of his face, as Alassë turned with a sudden look of first bemusement and then wonder.

Gritting his teeth against the pain of the searing light, Morgoth moved closer to his small hostage, preparing to seize her if need be. **"Who's there?** " He boomed, his voice as intimidating as he could make it.

Little Alassë whimpered and he went to slap her, to keep her silent, not reveal how close she was until he knew more about this interloper in his scheme. The light concentrated abruptly, narrowing into one beam and blasting his hand, the Power in it taking him by surprise, forcing him away from Alassë, even as he struggled to identify its source- it felt so multi-faceted, so _strange_ , and could come from no Ainu he had ever known!

Neither Morgoth nor Alassë were prepared for what stepped from the ripples. Upon one level, and Morgoth's initial confusion turned to sudden genuine wonder and then outright horror as he understood, it was a form that he knew well (moreso than anyone living). Slender, more slender than she had been, black-and-silver hair that had become a maelstrom of bright silver flame, eyes that burned like suns, skin that blazed like a blue-white flame that his darkness was burned away anywhere near its approach. He drew back for a moment, fear and indecision on his face.

* * *

Arwen did not know, then, the nature of the transformation that had overcome her, and would not until after she had talked to Lúthien about what precisely had happened and why to try to clarify things. What she knew was much simpler: Morgoth was not content with trying to ruin her and coming all too close to succeeding, no, now he was trying to hurt another child in her family. Her love for her sister (stranger to Arwen though she was, Alassë was still kin) and the wrath within her erupted in the fullness of the Ainu-heritage that was Melian's legacy, a blazing light amidst the darkness that no unhallowed work of Morgoth Bauglir could touch.

The dark was indecisive for a moment and then it raged, seeking to move against her like the ocean against a rock, yet in truth what happened was less this and more the way a bonfire banished the shadows and fears of night. The shadows raged still more strongly and the light intensified, and those within the regions of the northernmost corners of Arda witnessed something strange.

A sudden powerful storm of darkness had arisen just outside the camp of those who had fled the havens after the threat of the beast Smaug, yet elsewhere the darkness was receding. Elrond Peredhel, his twin brother Elros and wife Celebrian, found themselves huddling close together, staring in awe and horror at the daunting sight before them. Mere moments ago, they had missed Alassë, who was not in their tent as they had told her, but their hearts quailed at the thought of stepping closer to this, this maelstrom of Light and Darkness, swaying back and forth.

"Surely this is some work of the Valar," Celebrian murmured, her eyes wide, her voice barely audible.

Elrond and Elros exchanged looks over the top of her head. For both of them, although this was alien and strange, it called to something deep within them, though they had no words for what they sensed amid the surging Power.

* * *

Arwen still was not sure exactly how she was doing what she was, but still the Light surged from her, fuelled by her hatred and fear of the creature that was losing ground, inch by inch, retreating before this new strange power. Not taking her eyes from him, for fear of a trick, she simply extended a hand to where she could 'feel' Alassë cowering. "Come to me, tithen munithel. I will not let anyone hurt you." Huge grey-green eyes- like Naneth's- peered at her through a cloud of silver curls.

"A-are you Arwen?"

Arwen smiled, brightly. "I am." And then for a moment she stood tall and glowing before the darkness, seeming to grow nearly three feet in height as if she truly were one of the Valar or the more powerful Maiar. "I am Arwen Undomiel, Evenstar of my people! She is my sister, and you shall not have her, nor shall you ever have me again!" She took her pendant from her neck and the light erupted outward in a great sphere that if any had seen the surface of the Sun from Arda would have mirrored it.

The darkness drew itself together for one last strike like a great spear or the bow-shock of a ship trying to skim the surface of the ocean, yet the sphere erupted outward. In a sudden roaring shriek that led time itself to seem to stand still for a moment that seemed all too short and yet all too long, the darkness suddenly was almost literally thrown back to the vast rebuilt fortress of Angband.

* * *

Morgoth suddenly jerked on his throne as a vast sphere of darkness slammed into him and then he stared for a very long moment, his clawed hands gripping his throne. An Elf Maiden, even if she had some debased and diluted Ainu blood, had thrown him back to his throneroom after crossing a space of dozens of leagues as easily as one might cross streets.

He would remain staring on his throne in that state of shock in real time for a span of fourteen days as reckoned in the Great Lands.

* * *

In the Máhanaxar, in distant Valinor, the assembled Valar looked to each other and then to the Elder King, who nodded, and spoke as their Father spoke: "The signal has been sent, the hour of the Ending dawns. Our brother's day of reckoning looms, and Arda shall become what it was always meant to be."

None save the Istari knew of this, and the first sign was that their kinsman Radagast appeared among them without warning and with a smile.

* * *

Arwen almost gasped in delight as the stifling darkness that seemed to smother all of Middle-Earth of late vanished, the Sun beaming down as it had not for so long. Alassë too was staring upward in awe: had she ever seen a clear blue sky, or the true glory of the Sun unclouded? Close by, she could hear voices calling for Alassë, and her heart swelled: Adar and Naneth. She knew their voices as well as her own, marvelled that she had ever forgotten them. As they ran into view, she knelt, embracing a now-trembling Alassë, whispering to her small sister words that she wished she had heard, back when Morgoth had first tormented her. “You were so brave, Alassë, and I'm so proud of you. So too are Nana and Ada. This was not your fault, do you understand? I love you, and I will always keep you safe.” She kissed the elfling on the brow just as her parents came into view, some distance away. Arwen managed only a smile in their direction before everything rippled again, and she was elsewhere.

Elrond and Celebrían froze, blinking in the suddenly bright sunlight: Alassë stood alone in a patch of emerald green grass spotted with dazzling white niphredil, a blossom they had only seen when Lúthien was present, or, long ago, Arwen. The elfling was smiling, although her little face was tearstained, her focus fully on the empty air before her. And if either Elrond or Celebrían thought that they had seen a mirage of their elder daughter, embracing her sister, for an instant, both dismissed it as a trick of the light upon their eyes.

* * *

In the House of Last Resort, the maelstrom of light and darkness had been felt as much as seen: a great pressure like the onset of a thunderstorm, a thing that smothered the lungs and left people who had not seen the War of Wrath beginning to comprehend the fear and terror of those days, and those who had endured that time of horror staring for a moment in the blank shock of the memory.

The receding darkness was a thing of wonder, amplified by Arwen's disappearance a matter of hours ago. Her family in the House of Last Resort waited in their tent, afraid to move or to stir too much lest a secret hope prove real, or lest speaking it aloud would condemn Arwen to a much worse fate instead.

When the Sun shone with brilliance that had not been since Morgoth had declared himself openly and sent his armies under the Balrog of Moria to assault Rivendell, the sensation of warmth and hope that gripped the camp was its own element of wonder in turn.

Thranduil, Celeborn, Maglor and Huan were wandering the woods in hopes of finding Arwen, after having ordered the near-frantic twins to stay put, for their own safety, with Túrin and Niënor to watch over them, yet it was Thranduil who actually found Arwen, and it was at the point that he had arrived where she had vanished, the bodies of the Orcs making it clear, that he saw a very strange sight. The very fabric of existence rippled like water disturbed by a skipping stone and Arwen appeared from those ripples, pale, but with a smile on her face.

Blood dripped from her nose and ears and she gave him a woozy smile as she slumped forward on her knees, though he caught her before her head would have smacked straight into the pauldron of one of the Orcs. He carried her in his arms back to the camp and dropped her at the tent, not wishing to risk upsetting her with unwanted physical contact, no matter what role, if any, she had played in the sudden withdrawal of Darkness (for he did not doubt that she had done something, somehow), and decided to go speak to the other leaders. _Something_ had clearly happened. The question was, could they trust it?


	15. Chapter 15

Galadriel stood by her still-unconscious granddaughter, her brow creased with worry. It had been well over a day since Thranduil had retrieved her, following whatever blessing had restored the Sun, but Arwen had yet to stir. Túrin and Niënor, along with Elladan, Elrohir and Huan, were seated surrounding the mattress that Arwen lay upon, each speaking to her softly (or whining, in Huan's case) in turn. Galadriel had tuned out their words, if she was honest. Far more pressing, to her mind, was discerning what, precisely, had caused the Shadow to recede, restoring Arien's glory.

The Istari knew something, of that she had no doubt, given the smug looks and smiles they had worn of late, and the utter respect they had shown to Arwen, even though the young elleth would never know it, suggested that she, somehow, had played a part in it, but Galadriel, try as she might, could not fathom how. Nothing in her experience could explain it.

Already, and it was not yet a full day from the restoration, there were rumors flitting around the camp. Some had said that it was Eönwë or Oromë, though she knew better than to believe either. Oromë's horn was no subtle thing, nor was its sound. It was not there. She knew that her granddaughter had potentially a great deal of power, as her old friend Lúthien did, but to imagine a daughter of her lineage being able to best _him_ even in a sense of..... Galadriel's stares remained quiet as thoughts crossed through her head.

If what she suspected was true, what effect might that have on Arwen? Power she might have, but Ainur power was not truly meant to be worked through an Incarnate's form, and now Arwen lay drained and unresponsive. She had been _bleeding_ when Thranduil returned her to the camp! And even if that were set aside, whatever had possessed Arwen to take such a risk, travelling, or whatever it was she had done, to confront her old tormentor, when, usually, just the mention of Morgoth's name had her cowering?

The outer edge of the tent rustled slightly and they saw Lúthien peering in. Galadriel nodded with a warmer smile of welcome and saw her old friend moving with a bit more trepidation and a set of warring emotions on her own face. Something had happened to her in the woods before Arwen had vanished. The way she moved, the kind of caution, made Galadriel worry about the precise nature _of_ that something.

* * *

Only Beren knew the full truth of what had happened with her, what Arwen had spared her from. It was not, in truth, entirely Lúthien's first time with such a thing and it had been the previous case that had drawn her to Huan and that threat had been from her own kind, though none here but herself and Huan knew of that long ago cruelty, so far as she knew. To have faced such a thing from an Orc... She would be forever grateful for Arwen's intervention, gory though it had been. Then Arwen had vanished and Lúthien had had a moment of genuine fear that she'd be blamed for her disappearing yet again on her watch, and buried herself in Beren's recovery rather than letting the emotions flit through her mind too much.

The Sun had returned, Arwen had too, bleeding. Returned where she'd vanished, from Thranduil's words (and the bodies of the Orcs had been burned earlier this day to prevent their presence from serving as another kind of risk). And now Arwen lay comatose like this.

Lúthien found herself blinking back tears as she regarded Arwen's unmoving form. She had experienced something of this type, though not as severe, during the aftermath of her own encounter with Morgoth: her ears and nose had bled, and she had been utterly exhausted, but she had not experienced a loss of consciousness, let alone one so prolonged as this. She could not bring herself to meet the gaze of Arwen's siblings, blood or chosen- what if they held her in some way to blame for this? She was the oldest of the line, after all: she was meant to protect her descendants, not the other way around!

She did not see their worries, nor the ways that Elladan and Elrohir noticed the ways she shifted and was slightly more uncomfortable around them than she was around Niënor and Arwen, nor the way their eyes widened at first in understanding.

Nor did she notice the shadow that passed over their face at recognition of what had happened. The moment, too, had been a fairly short one, as the silence held minus Huan's sounds and his nuzzling Arwen and resting his head beside her. It was somewhere in between keeping an eye on someone exhausted and felt almost like a wake, and yet... The Sun's warmth filtered in even through the tents, and there was something soothing there, and in the recognition that this maiden who had suffered so much had literally restored Arien's heat and light to a world that had become darker and colder, the demon-haunted world that Morgoth had sought to create and become worryingly good at.

Wracked with guilt as she was over Arwen being injured once again, Lúthien could not keep joy and hope from dawning in her heart. The black miasma that had choked Middle-Earth in these times had been forced to retreat by the actions of one elleth- who knew what could be accomplished when all Free Peoples stood against the Enemy, together and united under one banner? The wind seemed to hum in agreement with that assertion, and the sounds of the birds and the beasts in the woods (which had grown louder and more welcoming since the shadow had withdrawn) seemed to echo likewise.

It was Túrin who broke the silence. "Nobody else has provided any kind of clear answer as to what might have happened but... I believe I can guess. Somehow, in some way, she confronted the Enemy, gave him a bloody nose, and we have... we have the Sun. For the first time in... since my sister and I have come back." He looked at her quietly before continuing. "Arwen was drawn to confront him, and drove him off. And the world is warmer."

For a time there was quiet, still. "We have a time of peace," he mused, as the eyes of the others were drawn to him. "It might last a day or it might last longer, but we have been given a reprieve from the strife and the monsters stalking the woods."

His eyes looked to Lúthien, who missed that his eyes and the eyes of others were drawn to her, still focusing on Arwen as her hands moved with slight nervous tics. "And that means, too, making sure that there are no cases of people blaming themselves for things that worked to the good."

Lúthien did not hear him, though if she had much of her inner turmoil would have stilled. For a moment as she watched her descendant sleeping she smiled, softly, thinking further of her strength and then she heard a twig cracking near the woods _and then she was on the ground, her hands and feet tied as a pale hand slipped up her legs and a voice growled guttural threats_ \- she blinked and then strode out of the tent without warning. Galadriel's eyes were wider in worry, as were those of the others, though they decided to give Lúthien her space and to trust that Beren could soothe whatever forces were haunting her.

Lúthien half-ran through the camp, wanting only to be alone, not even sure she wished for Beren's company at present, as she fought to quash the horror of the memory, shuddering at what had almost happened to her. Nothing had truly happened, really, and she was not violated in truth, nor injured, so why did the memory haunt her so, unbidden? She was startled for a moment when she heard a sound beside her, but saw another of Mithrandir's kin raising his hand. For a moment she froze, not sure what she should do.

Radagast's voice, when he spoke, was deeper even than Alatar's, as deep as the creaking of trees and the sonorous voices of the Onodrim with whom he worked so keenly.

"You are troubled, Luthien Melianiel." She nodded, feeling ashamed to admit anything of her difficulties to one who was of her mother's order. Radagast's face was solemn and there was a bit of sorrow in his eyes. "I will not ask you what troubles you, I will only note this. It is not the first time that this particular trouble has happened to you. You have seen the effects it has on another, and it awakens in you memories you have sought to keep in a corner as dark as the Enemy's own fortress. You have also seen how poorly hiding them worked with your descendant. You have nothing more to be ashamed of than she does. Your husband is searching for you, let yourself speak to him and unburden yourself. You may be surprised to find what he already knows."And then he was gone as if he hadn't just stood there and she heard Beren's voice calling her name. She froze and turned around to see him as he looked at her with a blend of sorrow and understanding in his eyes, mouthing a few words to her that she nodded in response to a bit stiffly, almost like one of the machines made by the Dwarves. He did not touch her, only pointed to a clearing in the woods, and they went together for a talk that they had never really had in their first life, Lúthien deciding to trust the strange Maia's advice.

Beren had listened gravely and made no motions to touch her, then, until she was done and then he cautiously reached out to brush her hand. Lúthien let herself cry a bit, and the memories of a dungeon and the malice of the _other_ Feanorians, beholden to the Oath and its ill fruits, and _other_ hands and the various emotions stirred up let themselves loose, a bit.

The insights Beren now revealed surprised her, and she found comfort in airing this secret, that she had viewed as shameful, at last. Once it was out in the open, and her husband embraced her as lovingly as he ever had, she could only wonder _why_ she had kept silent for so long, not trusting in his love for her.

She actually asked him that question and he just smiled at her sadly, and gave her a simple answer that made her think.

"You are a strong woman, Lúthien, who knows how strong you are. It is not an easy thing to face the fear that you would not be, but you were strong to withstand it and to bear that burden and just as much to share it. Thank you for finally trusting me enough to tell me. You did nothing wrong any more than Arwen did, the wrongdoing was on those who harmed you."

She nodded. "I..." for a moment there was silence. "Thank you."

The shadows on her heart withdrew as they had elsewhere, those left in the land of memory. The worries about Arwen were still there but in Beren's company, at least, manageable. Tomorrow, she vowed, she would go to the woods and she would sing as she had then, and she quietly offered to him to hear her voice and he smiled in turn.

"That's how all this started,' he said musing. "You singing in the woods, and me escaping from Nan Dungortheb and thinking I'd seen the most beautiful maiden who ever lived. As long as the shadow is gone and its minions with it, I think the nightingale _should_ sing again." And then he kissed her hand softly as she smiled in turn.

* * *

Radagast was smiling somewhat sadly as he retreated, giving Lúthien and Beren their privacy. The withdrawing of the Shadow was already having a positive effect- old grievances and injuries were being aired or re-opened that they might heal more properly. He of course had no grasp of how long this respite in the war could continue, but that was one of the purposes of this meeting with his brethren.

Reaching their usual gathering place, he nodded a greeting to Mithrandir, the one he knew best among their order, and they waited in companionable silence for the arrival of Alatar and Pallando. He heard the two walking in, for people who'd fought in the East against the servant and then against the master they made no real efforts to hide themselves. Then again the restrictions on their power was always subtly different, as fitted the nature of the world to the east, so he supposed that made sense.

Pallando smiled that uncomfortable-looking smile and raised a hand in greeting. Alatar, befitting his more dour appearance, simply nodded and took a seat. He was sharply amused to see Mithrandir passing around some of the last of a particular habit he'd picked up and which had spread among the Istari. Pallando raised an eyebrow but Alatar contentedly took the pipe and puffed, forming a tree when he exhaled smoke. It was Alatar, and of course it was Alatar, who opened the discussion even when Mithrandir nominally led them.

"I did tell you that Arwen Elrondiel's disappearance meant more than it seemed, as did her return. Now you see this, the return of Light and the beginning of the Enemy's downfall."

Mithrandir nodded gravely. "I admit, events have played out in ways I never imagined, and for the better, despite the suffering that led us here."

Arwen's suffering. Radagast closed his eyes, hoping his kinsmen would not divine his thoughts. Yes, things now looked brighter than they had for long, but at what cost? He had seen Arwen at her lowest point, her deepest despair, and still, even after so long, struggled to believe that there could not have been a better way.

Alatar nodded, seeming to guess what Radagast was thinking. "I apologize, Mithrandir, for seeming at times to forget that since Curunir marched himself to destruction in folly you are the one meant to lead us. But in truth, you were caught in a shadow that it took outside eyes to perceive, which is on the Enemy. And even with that shadow banished, I may recognize that the Lords of the West and Iluvatar have the power to decide things and to loose fate, but sometimes the means to get there....."

Silence fell for a moment. "The downfall of Numenor, the fell fruits of the Oath, and the fate of the poor maiden. Our Father did state that his would be a vision of sorrows leavened by greatness, but...." He blew another smoke cloud and turned to Mithrandir. "That's why you lead us, Olorin. Of all of us you alone have studied the ways of Nienna, and you know most what it is to know these things. Strength in arms cannot beat the enemy, compassion, love, understanding, these are things that he has no counter to." His smile was bitter for a moment. "We all remember the wrath and what _she_ unleashed when the Lords of the West sought to bring the hammer down as much as they could. Ours is a harder road than that one, but I think a better one. And yet, still... I hope when Arda is unmarred our Father will explain why _these_ things, for I cannot always see the sense in it."

Mithrandir nodded, his face quiet. Part of him felt a relief, still more visible on Radagast's face was the fact that Alatar the hot-head had actually spoken and given voice to the secret thoughts, the better to have them out and to work them through.

"Well," Mithrandir said as he blew his own set of rings from the pipeweed, itself part of a vanished future that could have been and would never be, "we were given bodies like the Children, so it makes sense that our hearts would be as them too. I think if we accepted this plan unthinkingly, we and our masters would be more like _him_ than what we should be."

More silence and then the other Istari nodded, as Mithrandir then continued. "In the span of a few days the bulk of the people who lived near the Havens are poised to arrive here. The Lords of the West said that the signal has been sent, and I suspect that the dragon had less to do with why they left than he would prefer to believe."

Pallando spoke this time. "The armies, then."

Mithrandir nodded. "Yes. The armies from the Farthest West. They would need a space to muster and to make landfall, and doing so amidst a group of refugees would be....challenging."

Pallando snorted. "End of the world and here we almost all are." The nods were more sorrowful then, though this time it was Radagast who spoke up, musingly.

"He always thought I was a fool because I worked with the sphere of the Queen of the Woods. And yet I wish he were here to see this, in the end."

Mithrandir bowed his head, in respect and grief for the fallen Curunir, who could have been the greatest of them all, had his arrogance not overwhelmed his logic. “We all wish that, my friend.”

Belatedly, Radagast recalled that Mithrandir and Curunir had been friends, once, before the latter had abandoned reason and battle strategy for madness and a wish for personal glory. He rested his hand on Mithrandir's shoulder to comfort him as he changed the subject. “Do we know when, precisely, the refugees from the Havens will reach us?” Mithrandir didn't quite nod or shake his head and made a gesture somewhere in between. "Precisely, no, Between the next three to five days, yes. After the... change, the precise time depends on how much they decide to enjoy the sunshine and the peace before moving onward. Too, we have already see that this camp has seen... changes... since the Sun returned. They may see them also."

Radagast nodded, accepting that. "What I can do to help them on their journey, I will."

Alatar smiled, grimly. "I can't think of a finer group of friends to face the end of all things with."


	16. Chapter 16

Her sleeping had been one of the first in a long time where the path of dreams was in its lovelier realms and channels, not the mists and shadowland of the realms of nightmare. It had been pleasant, in all truth, and it meant that those two nights and part of two days was genuinely restful in a way that she had had precious little of since the fall of Rivendell. Good memories, of parents and brother and sister and of the old Last Homely House as it was, at its height.

Her body had recovered and healed from the price of what she'd done, though she did not sense this, only the aftermath. From a deep slumber to a point that only the sight of her brothers and Huan and, she'd sensed her light as a brilliant thing in this kind of state, Lúthien, had known she was alive and that her soul had not passed to Mandos, to true slumber, and now...

It was morning, the rays of Arien traversing the world and it was that heat, so strange and unfamiliar after the Shadow had fallen, that awoke her. Her eyes opened and she felt her stomach growling with hunger as her family, half-asleep, started awake. Arwen let herself trust that her eyes were open, that all of this was real. She had faced Morgoth himself, saved her younger sister,and driven him back to his throne, weakened. If she could face the monster of the Outer Darkness, she could face whatever else would happen from this, too. She turned to her brothers and sister as her hand clasped her pendant unconsciously. "Good morning," she said.

There were gasps, sputters and relieved laughs from them all, Peredhil and Edain alike, as she managed, with some effort, to sit up, help instantly being offered from all those that surrounded her who had arms, while Huan's aid was a vigorous licking. That made her laugh, although her eyes began streaming in the brightness of the Sun that they were no longer accustomed to. “I am sorry if I worried any of you, I...”

How much should she say, how much of what had passed, with Morgoth and Alassë, did they know? How much should they be told, how much would they even believe? Arwen herself would not have believed such a tale if she had not lived it, travelling across reality in some fashion, summoning Ainur-like power, enough to break Morgoth's hold over Middle-Earth, for however long... it beggared belief. She decided, cautiously, to tell them as much of the truth as she understood, knowing that her brothers at least had seen the ripples before and knew more of it than anyone else living.

Her brothers' eyes widened and moistened slightly at the thought of their family and their younger sister, who was closer to them than they had truly expected her to be, and then there was a silence as she described her transformation and what it felt like, what she'd _sensed_ and what she'd _done_ then. What it was to stride into the sphere of darkness with light shining from her and to face the great force of her old tormentor and to see it driven off. Somehow, impossibly, that had happened. There was no boasting in it, only simple confusion, and when she was done she looked around, curiously.

"I... I felt Lúthien here when I was sleeping. If anyone can explain to me more of this, I think she can." A soft, somewhat wry smile crossed her face, before she continued and it slipped: "She felt... sad."

Her family looked at each other uneasily. "Yes," Niënor said cautiously. "That is a word for it."

A slight spike of worry flitted through Arwen but then her stomach rumbled again and Elladan rooted around to provide her some bread and fruit that she took with eagerness reflecting her hunger. She was focused enough on eating to miss the looks and silent communication between her family before Niënor continued: "She reacted... like you do, sometimes."

Wiping off the breadcrumbs around her mouth, Arwen paused. "Like I do with what?" The quaver of fear in her words was audible.

"When you have one of _those_ dreams or memories."

It was not long after that that Arwen was moving as swiftly as her ancestor had the other day, and the family looked at each other for a moment before Túrin said, "It is another lovely day, I intend to go out of the tent and actually enjoy the Sun." The rest of the family nodded and went with him. They would give Arwen space... and since she lived and was awake, there was now a desire to actually _enjoy_ the light and warmth her deeds had wrought.

For her own part, Arwen pondered their words, and a worry for her ancestress grew: Had Lúthien truly borne such a burden similar to Arwen's? How could she not have noticed anything until now, she who had suffered similarly? Who would have dared (besides the Orc Azog, not a week ago) to lay hands on Lúthien Tinúviel against her will?

Arwen mulled over her thoughts, and then resolved to seek Lúthien herself, to see if she would speak to her of her troubles. Arwen herself felt as though a great burden had been lifted in facing down her fears, feeling lighter than she had for far too long. If possible, she wished to do the same for anyone else who knew similar troubles.

Setting off through the camp, feeling less concerned by the gazes of others than she usually was, although she still was not fully comfortable with stares, to her surprise, she found Lúthien not with Beren, Galadriel or Celeborn, but in conversation with Maglor and Thranduil.

She chose to veil herself from their sight and to remain out of eavesdropping range, as the conversation that she'd seen finished up not long after her arrival. It was something that seemed deep, she saw streaks of tears down Lúthien's face and on Maglor's, and even on Thranduil. To see her Daeradar with that kind of sorrow and haunted expression....the only times she'd ever seen it were the very few times someone had dared to bring up his _other_ family and that was very seldom. That made her feel more concerned, and she waited a bit longer after Thranduil and Maglor had left to unveil herself, moving cautiously and giving Lúthien time to adjust to her presence. She had liked that kind of respect for her space when she dealt with it, she was sure Lúthien would not be that dissimilar if what she feared was true was.

Lúthien, for her own part _was_ startled, but adjusted much more quickly and flashed a bit of a pained smile.

"Hello, Arwen." She spoke softly, raised a hand in greeting, and then gestured for her to sit where Daeradar Maglor had sat not only before. Arwen padded there, and waited for Lúthien to speak the way she was going to, trusting that whatever happened would happen, and would be necessary.

It did not surprise her that Lúthien focused the conversation on Arwen herself first. "I am glad to see you awake." She was wiping her face, attempting to hide the tears that streaked her cheeks. "I worried greatly for you, after... whatever happened, happened. You just vanished before everyone's eyes, and were missing for hours, before..." She gestured at the Sun, and at the world in general, so much brighter and clearer now. "Could you tell me what happened?"

"Actually, I'd hoped you would tell me." Arwen admitted. "I know what I remember, but... exactly what I did, and how, I do not understand." She quickly explained what had taken place, her glimpsing Alassë in Morgoth's grasp, finding herself there, her surge of raw Power, and the confrontation between her Light and Morgoth's Darkness.

Lúthien listened quietly, seemingly grateful for the delay with the thoughts that haunted her. She took a few more minutes to collect her thoughts, then spoke quietly, telling Arwen what she knew and what her mother had taught her. It was, in both of their views, not near enough to explain _everything_ , yet Arwen simultaneously found herself relieved to learn that Lúthien too could _change_ and call upon skills that the Eldar did not have.

Arwen had summoned light that hurled Morgoth back on his throne and dispelled both his illusions and the strength he had sent out into the Great Lands themselves. Lúthien could call upon a version of the very Song that the Ainur had used to create the universe itself, not in the full way that the Choir did, or that underlaid the greatest of the works of the Ainur, but enough to lay Morgoth low. They talked for a time, musing on the various gifts of their family, and what they knew of it. It was a relief, words said that would be mused over and something that both decided they would seek to follow up on and to take further.

The Sun had returned but so would the enemy, and what they could do together, they would. After a pause when that talk had wrung dry as Arwen felt was meant to happen, she took a deep breath and steeled herself to ask a question she dreaded would be no less painful to Lúthien than her own sufferings were to her.

"Niënor told me you came to see me in the tent. When I was sleeping. That you had....a moment. Like I do with the bad memories or the bad dreams."

Even then it was hard to bring herself to say what needed to be said, especially when her uncle's face had that haunted expression she had seen a very few times. "It wasn't just Azog who......hurt you, was it?" Lúthien turned pale and then shook her head, the tears flowing a bit more freely, now, and unhindered.

"If you don't want to talk about it with me, I fully understand. More than... more than anyone else here would, I think. Just... you're not alone, and when you are ready to talk to me, I will be here."

Silence fell for a moment, and then Lúthien steeled herself in turn, her fists clenching and drawing on a core of inner strength, and she began to tell Arwen what she'd told Beren, within certain limits. "What do you know of how and when I met Huan?"

Arwen furrowed her brow- she did not know as much of this part of Lúthien's story, but she knew some of it, albeit only in general terms. “It was in Nargothrond, wasn't it? When you were... delayed in your quest by Celegorm and Curufin-” She stopped speaking abruptly, remembering again the haunted, grieved look that she had seen on Daeradar Maglor's face not long ago, and her own face whitened as the truth sank in. “ _Celegorm and Curufin?!_ ” Two of the very Eldar had acted in that vile fashion?!

Lúthien's lips were tight, her jaw firm and her own face deathly pale. She nodded. "Yes, them. You... you see what they did. Orcs doing that is what they do. It's what _t_ heir master made them to do. War and... the darker things that come with it. Curufin......" She sighed. "He did not go as far with me as Morgoth did with you, but the only reason he did not is that Huan heard my pleas and escaped with me. I think that's why he connects so well with you in one way. He's... done this before. I kept it secret, for a long time, from Beren. But...." And there was silence, for a time.

Arwen listened, quietly, her own face ashen. To think that not only Eldar could have done this, but her own grandfather's brothers... Then she paused, for a moment, remembering the tale of her distant kinswoman Aredhel and the Dark Elf who'd taken her captive and... what he had done. It was not so unthinkable as it seemed.

Arwen didn't know what to say at first, then she leaned forward to take Lúthien's hands in her own, leaning as close as she instinctively felt Lúthien was comfortable with. "What they did to you was a sickness in them, and how they chose to express it. You did not do anything to tempt them, or to incite them, any more than he did. And if the vampire's words stirred those ghosts, it is as true with an Elda as with an Orc." Lúthien's eyes met hers and there were emotions there that neither could describe fully, a sense of a burden that was lifting lifted further, and of a deeper understanding that meant sorrow and respect grew for and between them both. "I understand what you feel, even if it was not quite what happened to me. You are not alone, now, and you will never be."

Lúthien nodded, finding herself choking back a sob at the insights this young elleth of her family was showing- even a week ago, she would not have believed it of Arwen. Squeezing her hands gently, she spoke as firmly as she could. “I hope you now understand that the same can be said of you?”

“Yes, and...” For a moment, Arwen broke eye contact, glancing down at the ground, before looking back up, staring Lúthien directly in the eyes. “The nightmare I told you and Daernaneth of, some time ago, of my screaming as my body bled, and weeping, then Morgoth beating me in a rage... I know you reassured me it meant nothing at the time, to spare me more pain, and I thank you for that, but...” She took a deep breath. “It was a memory.” She already knew that, now, knew what had happened, what precious thing she had lost, unable to carry the new-conceived life in her weakened state, how the loss of that impossible new life had so enraged Morgoth, but still she wanted to hear Lúthien confirm it, almost as proof that she viewed Arwen as close to equal now, and trusted her to be able to bear her grief and loss.

Lúthien's eyes darkened further with sorrow and she said in a soft, choked voice: "Yes, it was. You suffered so much already at that point. Where you were, then, we did not want to burden you with another sorrow among all of them. Not because we did not and do not think you strong, for you are, but because we wanted you to be spared one thing when you were spared so little."

Arwen's face was mournful for a moment. "It was _his_ child, somehow, in some way. And yet I mourn for a life that should never have been."

Lúthien nodded. "A child is not at fault for the actions of the father, and it says very much of you that you could love a child by _that_ father in _those_ circumstances. There are few who could have done and..." She paused for a moment _the eyes of Curufin almost seeming to shine as a malevolent grin crossed his face and he leaned forward, hissing, “You'll be mine, daughter of Melian. My family and that of the Ainur, joined? You fought me now,” as a line of blood dripped from his face, “But I will return and then we will finish this.”_ Her eye twitched slightly. "If it had been me I am not sure I could have mourned as you did, and still do."

Arwen bowed her head for a moment and seemed to be lost in grief and almost meditative, as Lúthien remained quiet and simply sent soothing emotions to her and for a moment a silence stretched onwards. After some time had passed, the padding of great paws could be heard, accompanied by soft footsteps, and both ellith looked up to see Huan- though they were taken aback to see that the Hound was escorting Maglor. Arwen mused quietly if he perhaps had known somehow that she, at least, needed to speak to her daeradar.

For her part Lúthien looked at Maglor quietly and he looked at her ashamed. She shook her head slightly and stood up and went to speak to him quietly, leaning in to speak words that were meant to be between them.

Arwen scratched Huan and made a careful effort not to listen (as after she'd awakened her hearing was still keener than it should have been, though it was ebbing and she expected the next day it would fade altogether back to her normal hearing).

Lúthien and Maglor shared a soft smile and she told Arwen, "I will be back shortly, I... need a few minutes alone."

Arwen nodded, understandingly, again grateful she understood this more than most for a change. Maglor sat by her, his face still haunted and for a time she realized just how _old_ he was, what he'd seen, and the burden of his family and of its deeds. Seldom did the name of his father or any of his brothers save Maedhros come up, except when he'd had the _really_ bad nightmares.

She looked at him and spoke softly. "Daeradar," She placed a hand on his shoulder as he looked at her. "No-one will judge you for what Celegorm and Curufin did. That sickness in them was..." For a moment she was quiet, and then when she was confident in her next words, continued. "That sickness was the result of something they let consume them. You're not them." She smiled softly. "That song you sang, when Túrin and Niënor and I arrived in the camp, you sang with the voice of the Valar then. We heard them, in you."

Then she hugged him and let herself stand up for a moment and stretch, and followed Huan as he huffed and went to seek Lúthien. The older elleth was not far away, and Arwen remained by Huan's side, seated by a tree, as Lúthien sang a song of ancient Valinor, one of the _old_ songs her mother had sung to her in secret, the songs of a distant past when the world was young, the mountains green, and no stain yet on the moon was seen.

Maglor remained where he was, lost in thought and ancient memory, for a time, Lúthien's song striking a chord in his heart, unlocking more tears that he had long needed to shed. That beautiful music then lightened his heart as the Sun lightened the sky, and he let himself smile, grateful that after all the suffering of his family and of himself, both the House of Fëanor and of Elrond, that there were these moments, where family outweighed the rest.

He stood up too and went to stand beside Arwen and Huan, listening to the nightingale's voice flowing like the ocean, more ancient than the mountains and freighted with the memories and the dreams of time. For a moment he too remembered a time when the world was young, and he was one of seven brothers, and the deep shadows of the future had not yet risen. It had been so long since he'd had _that_ kind of smile on his face, of a good and simple and clear memory of a better world, that he did not recognize it until he saw the expression mirrored on Arwen, as the song echoed in the woods and the animals seemed to halt, at times, and to listen as if it were not Lúthien, but her mother singing in the old days in Valinor.


	17. Chapter 17

After the previous day, Arwen had gone to sleep more than half-expecting the dreadful memory to lure her from the more pleasant realms of Lorien to the shadow-haunted sphere of Nightmare. It did not. Her dreams were soft and lovely, memories of Rivendell as it was interspersed with the memories of running in the woods with Huan. Rest, too precious in a world that had been shadowy and demon-haunted in the wake of _his_ incursion, was a luxury that felt wondrous. Only one thing had been heard in her dreams, a soft voice that was not quite a voice nor an impression. At the one hand, a soft voice and at the other, the kind that could appear as a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night. It had spoken in word and the courses of the heart and she had awoken. The light of Arien burned as wonderfully and warmly as ever, and that too felt a luxury, not the thing she had taken for granted and which had haunted the Elves as a symbol of their seemingly inevitable decline. Nienor. She knew now that her own memory meant that she could and must broach something painful, a talk only for her and for her chosen-sister.

Part of her gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, the knuckles turned white. It would be a hard talk, but her chosen-sister needed this, and she knew that at one level, it would help her, too. After all, who better to understand her kind of grief than one who shared it to its fullest? She rose and readied herself for the day, moving more slowly than she truly needed to, ordering her thoughts and trying to decide how and where she should begin this discussion with Nienor, for certainly it was not a matter for anyone besides themselves to hear. Eventually, she emerged from the tent, and, as the area seemed mostly deserted, with most who dwelled in the camp already about their daily tasks or simply enjoying the beautiful day, she 'reached' with her mind, 'listening' for Nienor, to determine where she was. To her relief, if slight surprise, Elladan, whom she knew at some level was, if not courting Nienor, then already close to it, was not near her. Nor was Túrin.

Túrin was in the camp enjoying singing an old song of Doriath to entertain various women of the camp (she snorted slightly), while Elladan and Elrohir were quietly talking to her grandparents, and there was a pulse of emotion that was wondrous and strong. She did not question it then, simply relieved to know that on this day, when they needed it, there was solitude. She looked for Huan as by instinct, seeing him by Lúthien (and relieved there, too. Lúthien needed him, as their talk had helped her sorrows but she still needed company that could be there and give her the kindness needed). She veiled herself and strode toward a small clearing in the woods, one that Radagast had ensured was there if people needed it. She couldn't resist a slight smile as she brushed a tree where her other form had clawed it. The smile faded and she moved behind a veil into the woods, letting herself focus.

Nienor was some distance away... deeper in the forest? Her thoughts seemed dark and heavy, and Arwen frowned. Could it be that what she wished to discuss with Nienor was already weighing on her Edain sister's mind? She moved with that quiet stealth and grace that had always been her gift, honed by woodcraft in other faces as well as her own, and then saw her. For a moment she chose to observe, seeing what she could see. Nienor was holding herself, tears flowing down her face, hands on her belly. Rocking herself. By sympathy Arwen's own hand moved to her own belly and _blood in front of her and the howls of a Dark King on his throne that changed nature and tone, not merely possession though it was there but anger directed at her personally. And grief, such choking toxic grief from an abomination_ -her stare was blank and then she firmly jerked her head to dispel the memories and stepped aside, taking a few deep breaths and wiping her own eyes before dropping her veil. She padded around softly, clearing her throat lightly. Niënor's eyes whipped up to see her, and there was first shock and then anger overlaid over that deep grief. 

"Arwen. Why....why are you here?" There was a slight tone of acid, or more than slight, in Niënor's voice, though it was an acid of grief and Arwen understood it at one level.

"I was worried for you," the words slipped out easily, and she met Niënor's gaze steadily as she walked towards her. "You should not have to bear your grief alone."

Nienor let out a bitter laugh. "Arwen, as much as I love you, what do you know of what plagues me now?"

Arwen could not hold back a shiver, her hands mirroring Niënor's, pressing to her own empty belly, cradling it, as she swallowed hard. "More than you know, I am afraid." Her words now came out thick, choked with emotion.

Nienor paused, for a moment, her gaze searching. At that moment Arwen realized that while Nienor had seen much less of fighting and of strife than Túrin, she was no less the daughter of a family of warriors and heroes, and that to those as they insight into grief and its permutations was... greater than usual.

Nienor spent a couple of seconds pondering and then her face went from one kind of grief to another, skin going as white as a mortal face could. "Not _him_ ," she whispered.

Arwen's lip quirked slightly, the first and thus far only time that this matter could have been even slightly amusing. "He didn't exactly...share me....with others." Her hands were still on her own belly. "It's not the same as what you endured, but... I do understand."

Niënor's face, still pale, was as stiff as it could be at first and then she gestured for Arwen to sit by her. "You're right. We do need to talk." Arwen moved as if her limbs were turned to wood. She knew this grief needed to be aired, the old wound torn open that it might heal correctly, but she was not looking forward to describing precisely what had happened, or reliving it; the twisting sharp pain, the aching loss, the blood, _his_ rage and the torment that had followed, for weeks, months- she honestly didn't know.

Nienor reached out, resting her hand atop Arwen's, her voice barely more than a whisper. "What happened? I mean, I was led to believe that the Enemy could not sire life...."

Arwen couldn't choke back a bitter laugh at that, the laugh having a slight mirror of the ugliness that the Dark Lord had had in his own morbid humor. "I was taught the same thing. There is only one way for a child to be conceived and I do not wish to stir those waters for either of us by describing _that_."

Niënor's nose twitched slightly and her right eye twitched a bit as well. "Point taken."

"I did not know I was pregnant, not until....that day. I knew that I had cases of nausea and could not keep what food I got down, I knew that I was gaining weight. He at first thought that I was spoiled and becoming _fat_ until he had me brought closer and placed his hand above... there. Then...it was strange. It was as close to a peace as I had there, for a span of perhaps what seemed four or so months. No torments more than the continual presence of the _vampire_ ," she did not resist a hissing and even growling tone to that, "until that day. When I bled and then my hair started to turn white afterward." She sighed. "I know whose child it was, I know what blood would have flowed within it. If I had born some horrid thing of stone flesh and grasping claws or..." and she spoke quietly of _other_ dreams, a grief that only Nienor would ever come to know and that only partially. "A being of skin pale as bone with hair dark as mine was, and eyes that glowed with a golden light like that of Telperion," (her eye twitched and she refused to let the tears that wanted to come, come) "I would still have loved him. It was not his fault that he was conceived the way she was. I would like to think I would love a daughter too, but..." She sighed again.

"That's the worst part." Nienor nodded, knowingly. "To feel grief for something that should never have been, and then to feel shame for the grief. As if it makes it seem like it was wanted or enjoyable. like a sickness in your soul that can't be gotten out."

Arwen nodded, her shoulders hunched. Niënor's arm slid around her shoulders and they leaned upon one another, their foreheads close together. "Do you think... after the Unmarring... will... they... be there?" Arwen could not bring herself to say who she meant aloud- their unborn and ill-gotten children, but Nienor would understand.

Silence reigned, for a time, as Nienor pondered what to say, and how to say it, and then, with a deep breath she let herself whisper in a voice thick with tears "I... I want them to be. They were innocent, victims as much as we were of _him._ " She looked at Arwen, then, a look of fierce determination on her face. "You _hurt him_."

Arwen looked up at her with an expression of surprise.

"You got to do what I wanted to do but never got the chance. If you could do that, maybe... maybe..." she couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence and give full voice to hopes that now she knew at least one other person could share and did share.

Arwen nodded in turn, understanding those hopes and sharing them. The idea of their unborn children being there was... And yet Arwen could not resist a slight hope, however greedy, that the children of her future that could have been might be there as well, that _other_ future, her son and her daughters, for where there was grief there there was not a grief of nightmares, simply that of the Gift of Men, of true Death and its embrace.

For a time they simply held each other and let the tears flow, and an icy wall that had been there over Nienor broke with an emotional impact that _felt_ like the breaking of that wall, and where Arwen had time and practice in letting herself grieve thus, Nienor had two lifetimes' worth of emotions to let out. Arwen held her chosen-sister as closely as if they were true blood-kin, and said nothing, her arms around her, for sometimes there was nothing to say. Only being there, and giving someone space and time and love.

The Sun had long passed its midday point, and indeed was beginning to dip towards the West, when, both weary from weeping and supporting and comforting one another, elleth and mortal woman prepared to return to the camp, both feeling somehow lighter and yet stronger, as if a great weight had been lifted from them. They were each so deep in thought that neither noticed the tiny figure hurtling towards them until it flung itself headlong into Arwen's legs.

The first Arwen knew of it was finding herself flat on her back, feeling a ray of sunshine that was strangely familiar, one that she had seen but a few days prior and under circumstances initially as bemusing. "Alassë," she breathed in wonder. "My little sister..."

"Arwen!" Alassë beamed.

Nienor stared in blank confusion at first, then a warm smile crossed her face. The sound of a limb cracking led her to turn her face to the west and there she saw, illuminated by the rays of the late day and casting long shadows before them, two Elves. One with a face that had lines on it no fully Elven face would have had, lines that faded in rapt wonder, and awe and for a moment his legs seemed to go weak. And the other was a near-mirror of her own mother, the lady Galadriel of Doriath, but with bright-silver hair instead of gold, and in her eyes there were tears. Nienor smiled, quietly, and stepped out, stopped for a moment by the Elf-maiden, who spoke into her ears quiet words and then the two shared a brief moment of forehead-touching before Nienor stepped onward.

She glanced back over her shoulder, once, and tears brimmed in her eyes as joy blossomed in her heart, as Arwen went to the embraces of her parents, from whom she had been sundered for far too long.


	18. Chapter 18

Elrond had a strong urge to pinch himself, to ensure he was awake and not lost in some fair dream as he and Celebrían wrapped their eldest daughter in their arms, tears pouring down all of their faces. _Arwen_. Was she truly here, safe in their arms at last, even as changed as she appeared, in looks, and, he suspected, in temperament.

Alassë had, on their journey here, invented some tale of having seen her older sister, being saved from some monster by Arwen, but Elrond had dismissed that as a child's story: Alassë had wanted to meet Arwen all her life, of course she would play-act at it. But then, when the child had thrown herself at her older sister, Arwen had greeted her fondly, not as if Alassë were a stranger, when to all intents and purposes, she was.

Celebrían too stared at Arwen as if it were a dream, a haunted look in her gaze. The taunts of the Dark Lord endured in her mind, and even the strange presence of the Sun and the dream could not entirely exorcise them. She was her mother's daughter, however, and the way her youngest daughter had greeted her older sister meant some of the chills and sorrows in her faded, as they did within Elrond. Their minds met freely, and where Arwen's showed a core of sorrow that had become both steel and clay, at points, it was one that shone more brilliantly than it already had. She turned to her father with a grave look on her face.

"How...." she paused, trying to ask the question as well as she could before deciding there was no good way to ask it. "How are you, physically?"

Elrond paused and cocked his head. He made a non-verbal sound of confusion and Arwen continued: "My... memories... returned very recently. I saw you... hurt... by it. The thing- the Balrog- that fell from the sky."

Elrond blinked, and then smiled in a bittersweet fashion. "Aside from a long burn-scar, I'm fine."

Arwen nodded, accepting this, and then pointed to the clearing in the woods. "It has been a long road, would you like to..." They both nodded, and she looked over her shoulder, seeing a being who was every bit the mirror image of her father waving with a soft sad smile on his face before turning to head to the camp.

Belatedly, Arwen realized that had to be her Uncle Elros, and wondered if she should have greeted him, but then Alassë slid her hand into Arwen's as they walked, chattering away gaily. Arwen was hard pressed to keep up with her sister's questions, but the child's cheerfulness made her smile: “Are Elladan and Elrohir here?” “Are they alright?” “I've missed living beside the Sea, but woods are lovely too, don't you think?” “You were so brave, saving me from that monster, can you teach me to be as brave as you?”

“Alassë, that is enough.” Celebrían interrupted at that point. “Don't tease your sister with make-believe she doesn't know anything about.”

Arwen couldn't resist rolling her eyes slightly at that and quietly let go of Alassë's hand to turn to her parents."It was not make believe," she said quietly. "Do you remember how at times I could be... far away and then return when I was a child?"

Elrond looked startled for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I remember. You found a few swords from the old Dagorlad battlefield once, to prove it." Silence reigned for a moment and then, as the meaning of that statement dawned on them, Elrond first and then Celebrían and both stared at her in mute wonder, shock, and even a slight bit of fear. Celebrían's look of guilt and shame magnified, and she couldn't resist sinking to the ground for a moment while Elrond spoke to Arwen in ósanwe: _You fought_ him _and drove him to his throne, then? It was you we saw in that sphere of light and darkness?_

Arwen nodded, her face pale with worry and the dread of that lingering memory.

Elrond's jaw dropped slightly in mute shock that he didn't bother to hide and then she was in his arms in a fierce embrace as he looked at her, closely, checking on her the way he had when she was young. Involuntarily, she tensed at being locked in any male's arms without warning, in a grip too strong to escape, and she squeezed her eyes closed, breathing deeply, fighting to keep the nausea- and the memories of _him_ wearing the faces of people she loved while tormenting her- under control.

The memories were too raw to hide, and Elrond sprang back slightly, a look of shame and guilt warring with a new kind of horror, and a more than vaguely greenish look on his face. He had seen _that_ shape, though the eyes that burned and the voice that rumbled from it meant that at no point did she have _this_ burden on top of others. "I am... sorry, Arwen. I should have asked. The enemy works many ills, and among them is....that."

Arwen nodded, a soft smile on her face, the fears stilling themselves when Alassë's hand slid back into her own and her sister's warmth seemed to disperse the slow creeping fogs of Angband before they truly rose again.

Her mother had felt the shift, too, though her sister's warmth meant that Alassë did not really pay attention to anything but the emotions, innocence in her case leaving her blind. Her mother's guilt became something different and she rose to her own feet, looking at Arwen with a sorrow and a pity that Arwen felt fully, her eyes turning to stare into her mother's.She looked at her daughter quietly, asking questions with her eyes that she dared not speak, and Arwen answered them with a nod and her head bowing. For a moment the fog of Angband returned again and she feared that this would be the point where her parents would reject her, for they had a daughter who was light and laughter and love now. Not one whose body and mind were scarred with the fell lusts of a withered giant on a dark throne.

Celebrían strode up to her deliberately and slowly, and spoke to her in osanwé: _Do you fear the embrace of women as you do of men?_

Arwen shook her head no, afraid to look lest her fears come true. Then arms were around her, softly, and her mother spoke to her words that were both words and emotions that pulsed with _warmth-love-sorrow-understanding-nothing to forgive-you were wronged not the one who wronged-we are here and will never leave._ Arwen let herself cry, then, and turned to her father and nodded, as _this_ time she welcomed it, and she needed it. Her sister watched, quietly, some part of her that she never fully understood and would not before the remaking of Arda letting her know to just look around and explore the clearing.

Celebrían let herself speak in true-speech, when they broke that second embrace, and let Arwen get the space she wished. "There are very few among the Free peoples who could have survived anything of what you have, Arwen. You may not see it, nor ever see it so long as the world endures, but... we, your father and I... we are proud of you. You endured the very worst things and have come out of them with a heart that is as warm now as it was when you were our little girl. In... the old days, none of this was necessarily so. Elves fell, because of less than what you survived. And here you are. After facing _him_." Arwen could not help but tremble, part of her wanting to shrug off her mother's words. "I do not truly understand _how_ I survived, though, when others did not, long ago..."

Elrond was the one who spoke in response to that. "How may not be something any of us have an answer to, not before the world is remade." He looked up, the light of Arien filtering through the woods, with a bittersweet smile on his face. "I do not think it will be all that long before that time, granted."

Her eyes, and those of Celebrían, turned to him as he continued. "How you did it does not matter, not to me. That you are here, that you are real...." Guilt in his face, now, as stark as in her mother's. "I... I am sorry, Arwen. For a long time I gave up on you. I thought if you were still in Rivendell that one or another thing of the Great Enemy had..." The guilt became a mask of old sorrows that had driven new lines into the face of the Half-Elf. "For so long I mourned you, and I believed that was all that I could do. I... your brothers and I have a talk ahead of us. One that will not be pleasant, but one that I have earned. I think, now, if I had not given up..."

Arwen let herself face her fears, even as her hands trembled slightly on his shoulders as she put them there and his eyes met hers. "The Enemy works his worst deeds with lies, Adar. I do not blame you for thinking that, not after what I've seen with that memory." Words of forgiveness that she did not understand, then, as what they were, words that led her to accept, despite her fears, that her father needed this as he hugged her again, and their minds met.

 _Shame-guilt-love-forgive-me_ streamed from her father to her, not in true osanwé but in some ineffable language or silent Song that spoke to the fey Ainu strain in their shared blood. She sent back, or tried to, _Love-no-blame-not-his-fault-nothing-to-forgive_ , but sharing that too, regardless, as her Adar needed it. Alassë was looking up at them, a gleam of curiosity in her grey-green eyes, her own Song giving off love, contentment, _Not-understanding-but-wanting-them-to-be-well_.

The warmth of forgiveness was something that Elrond had greatly needed, as he had feared for a long time that in the increasingly unlikely prospect of an Arwen who truly lived, rather than a false image of her being wielded in a cruel mirror of how Sauron had entrapped Beren's old friend Gorlim and nearly killed his ancestor in the process, that she would look at him with fear and hatred, and that in her eyes would be condemnation. Long had he had secret nightmares of an Arwen marked with torment and scars, if not an Orc, then more than halfway to one, and the snarled words ' _You let me die, father. Arwen is dead, and I am all that remains.'But now, w_ ith her in his arms, and the warmth of her forgiveness that in its own way was the warmth she had had before Angband and a mirror of her sister's innocent pure warmth, the shadows of the past receded in the light of truth as they had elsewhere, all through Middle-Earth.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TheLightdancer (being an extremely kind person) actually wrote this chapter: Ilya_Boltagon just did some editing.

_~ Elladan and Elrohir's tent ~_

Celebrían, Elrond mused, was probably off to see her father and perhaps Lúthien. That in itself was a good thing, he and his sons had words to say and to hear that had needed to be said. He looked around, seeing in the tent the trappings of his sons' lives in fighting the Enemy and his servants, and the quest and actions they had taken that had led to parting under harsh words and anger, and in the end to vindication.

So much had been lost when Rivendell fell and the terrible battle beyond the Last Homely House had been fought and lost. The Balrog had been, more's the pity, good at leading armies at war. Still better against foes who had not fought for centuries and who had hoped in the wake of the fall of Sauron that nothing would need to fight again. And then Darkness had fallen and the world become grey and harsh and cruel, a world of demon-haunted woods and vast battles fought by colossal legions. When last he had seen his sons he had yielded to anger and told them that if they wished to waste their time on a quest that would never end and never bring back one who was gone to Mandos, and they had lost their tempers in turn and then there was silence. Unbroken silence, until that day when they had sensed them for the first time in a long time, and then Arwen, the moment he knew now that it was his daughter he had sensed, and not the phantom he'd feared.

He waited, and then his sons stepped in, the look of surprise and worry on their faces leading him to want to laugh, though he bit back the impulse knowing it would do more harm than good. "Ionnath nin," he said in greeting.

"Adar," they said, both looking surprised at his presence.

Elrond's smile was a bit wintry, and sad, and that expression led to their seemingly being somewhat more nervous still. "I...." he began. "I wanted to tell you that I am sorry for dismissing you when you said Arwen lived. I do not think that it was wise of you, or just of you, to think that your younger sister exists as a replacement for Arwen, nor that it was wisdom on any of our parts to let grief and anger cloud our minds, when such things only serve the Enemy."

For a moment the twins met each other's gazes, communicating silently, in a way Elrond had never been able to interpret, and a look of shame crossed their faces.

Elrond took a deep breath and continued. "Alassë was not meant to and cannot replace Arwen, she..." he steepled his hands. "We were intending to have another child as it was for a long time. When the Darkness came and the Balrog with it and it revealed the nature of the enemy, we wished still more one last display of defiance, that we were not going to yield to fear, instead we would have someone who could let us remember what it is to be more than a figure of war and death. And yet all the same you were right. We did give up on Arwen, and we gave up too soon. From it..." he bit his lip for a moment. Taking a deep breath he continued. "I presume you know what happened to her and more about it than your mother and I do, not that we really want to know."

They nodded, but remained silent to Elrond's relief.

"It was hard enough to make myself believe she was dead, that the monster had simply killed her. I had nightmares, my sons, about her death, and worse nightmares about her striding from the grave to accuse me of..." He closed his eyes, shuddering even at the thought of those dark dreams.

The twins looked at him with grief in their eyes, then at each other, and then a heavy silence fell.

"I was wrong, my sons. I misjudged you, and your hearts, and your strength. And I am... ashamed... that in doing the same with your sister that I..." He shook his head, his eyes on the ground, unable to continue. It was Elrohir who spoke first, quietly. "It was the Enemy who hurt her, Adar, not you. She survived, and what she survived would have killed heroes of the First Age ten times over. And she not only survived but, not long ago, she banished the enemy, forced back his power, for a time. Given what she did survive, if any of us had found her we might have been taken captive too. But she is strong, she endured. I do not know if we could have endured... that."

All three ellyn turned pale and shook their heads and fought back the elements of nausea that bubbled up at aspects of those thoughts.

"We were angry with you at that time for thinking you had abandoned her, Adar, but I think...." Elladan's words caught his twin's attention and his father's. "I think the Enemy wanted us divided. And what better means to do that then to work with grief and anger, in the wake of the loss of our home and the death and the harms done to so many who had survived worse? The words spoken that day were not our words, entirely, in truth. It was the Enemy's power, and his malice at work." He blanched slightly, grimacing. "But it was at least in part our words as well, and for that too, Adar, we apologize. And you are right that we were wrong about Alassë, and never gave her the chance to be part of the family, and misjudged what you and Nana were doing." He sighed. "From everything I heard of the ancient legends and histories I thought the Enemy's works were like the demon from the sky, not the kind of anger and divisions that could...." More silence, and then Elrond laughed for a moment, a single bitter laugh that was leavened with grief.

"No, that is much more his way than the monsters, it was how his will worked before he stole out from behind the Doors. Anger, grief, and misunderstanding. Servants more powerful than any demon, or any barrow-wight that creeps from the barrow-downs and seeks to lay hands on those foolish enough to tread there."

He looked at one of the swords in the trench, a masterful sword at that. A sword, no less, of old Gondolin. There were questions in his mind about how his sons had found these weapons and what adventures had brought them to do so, but they would wait. For now... "It is hard to ask for forgiveness, sometimes but..."

Then his sons were beside him as they had their arms around each other. "There is nothing to forgive. We are together again. And in time, as Arwen heals, and as we get used to having you and Nana and our younger sister around... in time we will be a family again."

* * *

Arwen was near the outer flap of her tent when she heard a male voice clearing his throat and stiffened for a moment, her old fears and reflexes leading her to look with worry and fear at what she could or would see, or have seen.

The figure standing there wore light armor, and his hair was slightly darker than her father's. And he had a beard, which no being of more direct Elven heritage could have had at that age, a beard that was longer and thicker and with his long hair gave him as much the impression of a chieftain of the Haradrim or of the old Sea- Recognition dawned as she saw his face fully- it was her own father's face, but lined less with long years- and she gasped slightly. "Uncle Elros!"

He smiled warmly, inclining his head in greeting. "Arwen," he said softly. "I will not come too near you, your grandmother said in no uncertain terms that you do not welcome proximity to men that you do not know well. I may be your uncle but since we have never met," and his smile had a wry aspect that her father's would not, "I am fairly sure I am too much of a stranger for your liking."

She nodded, with an apologetic expression on her face.

Uncle Elros saw that and snorted slightly. "You do not need to apologize for it, Arwen. No-one who has survived a fraction of what your grandmother said happened to you should feel badly about needing their space. You are stronger than most."

She smiled softly, speaking tentatively, trying to explain, hoping she did not offend him. "I do not like touch, and it is... I may never get to the point where I find it enjoyable, no matter how innocent the intent. But... you are welcome to come in and talk, if you like."

Elros smiled again, a broader delighted grin now on his face. "I would be delighted." And with that he stepped in and found himself on his back getting some very enthusiastic licking from no less than Huan, which left Elros staring at the top of the tent with the wind knocked out of him, and Arwen giggling at the surprised look on his face.


End file.
